John Watson checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror of his car before stepping out of it: nothing between his teeth, collar smoothed, no shaving foam or toothpaste stain at sight. Alright. He breathed deeply, grabbed his folder and proceeded to go inside the building his first day of job.
It was a chemistry teacher position at Greenwood Secondary School, and he would be teaching A-levels. Even though it was a temporary position, he would work from the beginning of the school year until July, with real chances of coming back again the next term. He had heard rather bad reviews of the school, but he still had plenty of hope for what Greenwood could do for his career. It was a good opportunity to return to a teaching position after his years in the army where, although he had been quite happy, he had little chance to rejoin. And after coming back he had been just jumping from job to job, usually at private practices, which left him bored and unsatisfied. Surely teaching chemistry was going to be more rewarding than taking care of colds and gastroenteritis. God, let it be better than that! He honestly didn't have a clue of what to try next if it wasn't.
The school ground was quite new, airy and spacious, and the building was painted in a light, soft yellow. Before the wide main doors, though, there was a flight of stairs. John was half tempted to go up the ramp for the disabled, but he reminded himself that he had left his cane at home for a reason. He licked his lips thoroughly and ascended the stairs. They weren't more than ten steps, but high nonetheless, and by the time John was at last in front of the doors, his face blank, the pain on his thigh was sending him peaks of agony. He passed through the doors as fast as possible, conscious not to hinder the flow of students that were coming in and advancing him, but he did stop once inside, trying not to limp while he leaned against the wall, slightly next to the door. In order to mask his pain under a casual behaviour, he opened his folder and consulted the building layout he had printed from the school webpage the previous day. The Head Teacher's office was on the left of the main reception, and that was just in front of him, at the other side of the hall. He only had to try to relax his thigh for a moment, and he would be ready to introduce himself to the Head teacher and get stuck in with his first class. He watched the kids for a moment, noting, amused, how the wide, baggy jeans, longish hair and cardigans of his own grunge times at Secondary school had turned into an ocean of chequered shirts, colourful t-shirts and Converses. The younger students, still in their grey and navy blue uniform, looked at the sixth forms with envy, not noticing that what their elder peers wore was as good as a uniform, he thought, chuckling; all but one of the boys seemed to dress in the same way.
The discordant note caught his attention, a vague blur of movement in the corner of the eye. The boy wore black jeans, pointed boots and… was it a silk shirt? He could imagine pretty well the kind of nice epithets his peers would have thrown at him in his days, and things couldn't be that different nowadays… Well spotted, John, he thought, as three boys approached the first one and cornered him behind the stairs. John counted up to three. The boy surely would come out now, running perhaps. 4. 5. John moved forward, his pain momentarily forgotten. Two steps more, and he could see the books the boy was carrying, lying on the floor. Shit.
The scene under the stairs wasn't unfamiliar to John, sadly. He was glad he had never been a participant, nor in his student times neither in the army, but it was hardly the first time he had to witness or intervene to stop it. Two of the boys (seventeen? sixteen?) were holding the boy in the silk shirt by his arms, twisting them behind his upper body, and the other one (could he be eighteen already? He surely looked older, or perhaps just bigger and trashed) was punching him repeatedly on his stomach.
"Whatever is the matter?", he barked in full army-mode.
The bullies froze on the spot, and the punched boy dropped to the floor. The older one turned to look at John, and let his gaze go up and down, weighing him. What a nerve, John thought.
"Your names, boys", he ordered, readying pen and notebook.
The main bully spat to the floor, next to his own Converse clad foot.
"Adrian. Smith."
The other two boys mumbled two full names after him. John wrote them down, and then addressed the boy on the floor.
"Are these their true names?"
'Adrian' kicked the boy on the ribs. The poor lad panted and tried again to, at least, get on his knees.
"Oi! Stop that!", John shouted. "You don't have to say anything; I'm sure every teacher knows them. Now go to your classroom, you will get news of your punishment by the end of the day."
The two boys who were holding the other ran away, but the bigger one stood tall in front of John.
"And who are you, by the way?"
"John Watson. Captain John Watson, and now disappear!"
The boy addressed him a lopsided grin and went to join his friends. Oh, yes, it's a fantastic school, no doubt!, John thought. He turned his focus to the boy still kneeling on the floor. He reached to help him stand, but he shook off his hand and stood up on his own. Now that he could observe him, John realised that the boy was, in fact, taller than him. He was on the thinner side, but his shoulders were wide and his hands were big, so John decided the boy would definitely survive sixth form and University, bullies or not.
"Are you alright?"
The boy just raised his face and looked at John with disgust.
"OK, you are not, don't give me that look. Do you want me to accompany you to the nurse?"
"That won't be necessary", he answered, with a voice way deeper than John would have expected from a teenager. "I'm going to be late to the first class".
And with that, he started walking, heading for the classrooms. John considered for a moment insisting again, but it was indeed a bit late, and he still had to introduce himself to the Head teacher before the lessons.
Five minutes later, he stepped in the first classroom of his schedule. The Head Teacher had been busy, but the deputy heads had been really nice. She had given him his timetable for the term, listened to his story about the bullies and promised she would give them detention (as he expected, the description of the boys rang a bell at once). So he was feeling quite confident when he came in the classroom and felt thirty pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on him. It was the first day of the school year, and everybody was focused in finding new faces; he was quite sure that he would have had less impact in the class if he had arrived once the year had already started. He placed his folder on the desk, turned the laptop on and took a flash drive out his trousers pocket. He had prepared a powerpoint presentation with the scheduling of the course, but before, while the laptop warmed up, he fiddled with the registers and tried to find the right one. Two girls on the first row giggled and pointed out one of the papers… one that he had already put aside, thinking it belonged to another group. He was almost sure he avoided blushing, but he couldn't be a hundred per cent certain (damned fair skin!). He thanked the girls and started roll-call. It took him a full minute, his focus completely set in trying to remember faces linked to names, to acknowledge a known face on the second row, sitting next to the racks and the door, and opposite to the windows. The boy in the silk shirt.
He was running his hand through his short dark curls, looking bored and completely oblivious to his presence. No bruises on his face, at least, so he could just pretend nothing had happened. John called his name: Sherlock Holmes. God, he didn't even need that shirt and his spotless look to ask for bully attention… He was sentenced at birth. The boy raised his hand, frowning, and John tried not to pay more attention to him than to the rest of students for the rest of the lesson. He was completely silent, anyway, never losing that air of condescending boredom. At the end of the class, however, when most of the students headed for the corridor, he stayed, taking out his mobile phone and starting to type really fast into it. John approached him. Sherlock Holmes ignored his presence. John coughed lightly. A pair of grey eyes darted up to meet his.
"Yes, what?", the boy asked.
"I just wanted to ask you if you are feeling better", John said, quietly. Nobody seemed to be eavesdropping them, anyway. Holmes nodded and focused again in his phone. John added, "The Head Teacher has assured me they will get detention today."
"Fine".
"I hope it is. Look, if there's something else I can do to help…"
"I said 'fine', and I'm fine. Go back to your work, Doc."
John froze all of a sudden. Holmes got up in a swift and smooth twirl and left the room. John followed him remarkably more slowly and clumsily, suddenly envying all that youthful energy. The army had kept all of his, it seemed. The corridor was packed with students and Holmes was nowhere to be seen, so he had to keep for himself the question that lingered in his tongue. What a curious kid.
The rest of the day went by uneventful: the students were quite nice, even though his favourite group was, in fact, the A-level one from the first morning period. It had the usual noisy clique in the back rows, but also some nice students on the front one: intelligent, witty and funny. Not many, of course, just the two girls and one boy, but they made it worth it. And he was still wondering how Holmes knew he was a doctor when he finally ended the day's lessons and headed for the teachers parking lot. He definitely would ask the next day he saw the kid. He sat inside his car, threw his now thick folder on the other seat and sighed. The pain in his leg had abated during the first lesson, and never came back in full. He was quite happy with the outcome of the day: new acquaintances, the reassurance of a well paid job for a whole year, that warm feeling inside his chest that always came from feeling useful… Then his gaze caught a drawing beside the front doors, on the yellowish wall, and he would swear it wasn't there that morning. He got out of the car to look better at it, and then grimaced.
The drawing was a comic-like man with a huge phallus, almost bigger than the figure, and upon it the letters said: "JOHN WATSON IS A PRICK".
On Tuesday and Wednesday he ran a written test through his groups, in order to check if their knowledge level was better than their behavioural one. He had each group twice a week, and then one lab hour with half groups weekly. He intended to pair the students for the lab according to the results on the test. Tuesday's results were rather disappointing; he complained in the cafeteria at lunch time. Mike Stamford shrugged and then uttered one of his laughs that sounded suspiciously like a bark. John couldn't help smiling at him. He had been gladly surprised to find out that Mike was also teaching at Greenwood: they happened to meet at Barts, during their first two years of University, but after that the two of them chose different subjects and lost track of each other. Mike had been shocked when he heard that John joined the army the year after they finished at Barts.
"So that's where you were hidden… I thought you were going to teach? What happened?"
"Yeah, I tried for a few months…", John nodded.
And he changed topics quickly. Mike had enough insight to drop the topic and not ask again. John couldn't remember much of their relationship at Barts, but he did remember fondly easy conversations at the students' canteen and Mike's warm and contagious laugh.
On Wednesday he had again his favourite group, on the second period. He was looking forward to the results of his test; he was quite sure that half the group, at the very least, would get much better marks than his two Tuesday's groups.
"This is not an exam, so you can relax, guys… It's only a tool for me to know what level we are starting the year with. This doesn't mean you can't try to impress me, of course."
The two girls in the front row giggled, as always. Marcie and Nell, John remembered easily. And Rick by their side. Rick didn't giggle, but a wide and satisfied smile spread by his face, clearly eager to impress the teacher. Good, John thought winking at them and returning the smile. He strolled along the aisles the first minutes, checking that everybody understood the questions, and then sat down behind his desk and turned the laptop on. He had at least thirty minutes until the first students started to finish the test. To his surprise, before he could even enter his email account, a last racking gaze across the classroom showed him that Sherlock Holmes had already finished. He got up and approached the boy (who was wearing another shirt today; not a silk one, but a crisp and smart black one. Someone should tell him there's not a "the most elegant student" competition; this is secondary school, boy: this is "wear exactly what the other ones wear or you are fucked", Mr. Sherlock Holmes). John smiled and peeked down to Holmes' test: it was completed. The boy looked bored again, his eyes fixed absently at somewhere on the wall.
"Have you finished, Sherlock? Do you want to check it a last time?"
The boy shook his head. He didn't seem to be avoiding John's eyes, just too uninterested to look at him. John took the test and told Sherlock he could read or work on another subject while his mates finished their task. The boy took out his mobile and a book, and John sat down again and marked the test. He marked it twice, in fact. He glanced up the kid again: Sherlock was concentrated on his book. The rest of the students were still working on their test, some of them struggling and leaving a good amount of questions in blank. John focused again on the test he had in front of him. It was impossible. All the questions were right. It was a perfect test. Some of the questions were a tad too difficult on purpose, to highlight the few students who could be interested in studying chemistry at University level (there had been none in Tuesday's groups). Sherlock Holmes, that odd kid who dressed like a fucking fashion shop assistant, had even answered those questions right, and he had done it in record time. Even his three favourite students hadn't finished yet, eager to impress him as they were. And there was no way he could have cheated on the test. John rubbed his eyes, blinked and licked his lips. His stay at Greenwood had turned more interesting all of a sudden.
He commented his discovery at lunch time. Mike Stamford smiled at hearing the name.
"Ah, yes, Sherlock Holmes. I had him two years ago. He's brilliant, that kid. But irregular, too: I had real problems to make him pass the subject, mind you".
"How come?", John asked, frowning.
"He often failed to hand the tasks in, or left the lab practices unfinished… And surely you have noticed he doesn't get along well with the rest of the group… OK, OK, I know that's a big understatement… Well, you can imagine how the lab work in pairs went: sometimes he didn't turn up, or refused to work with his partner. So in the end I always had a brilliant exam, but also a lot of fail marks."
"But you gave him a pass, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course I did. I know some colleagues wouldn't agree with me, but sod them! I'm a veteran here; I can afford to be too lenient on occasions. But I wouldn't have done it if I had known how he would turn out the next year… I honestly didn't see it coming!"
The young woman who was sitting next to him elbowed Mike, hard. The plump man just laughed, and John had to settle for looking puzzled from one to the other. The woman sighed.
"You could just leave me out of this, Mike."
"But John is new and deserves to know!"
"Hey, I'm still here, you know?", John joked, following Mike's light tone. The woman looked slightly annoyed, but John was sure Mike would win her with no effort, his laugh was that kind of contagious. "What's the matter with that kid? Is he a future chemist or what?"
"I would bet for 'or what'", Mike answered.
"Oh, he's not like that, Mike, don't be unfair!", the girl exclaimed.
"So you still defend him, hmmmm? Interesting. I knew you were fond of him, Molly, but still?"
The young woman –Molly- blushed furiously. John raised his hand, about to ask Mike to leave her alone, for God's sake, but she gave in and started to explain herself.
"I reacted exactly the same way as John: Sherlock Holmes is brilliant, full stop. The only problem was that, once he noticed my reaction, he started to talk me into trying to have full access to the lab, at lunch time and free periods."
John frowned.
"What for?"
"He didn't steal anything, if that's what you are thinking", Molly hurried to say. "He just wanted to do his own lab practises. What we did in the classroom was too basic and boring to him."
"Oh, perhaps not stealing, but he did use a lot of components", Mike added, "and he managed to cause a couple to explosions."
"One fire and one explosion", Molly corrected. "And it wasn't on purpose".
"Of course it wasn't on purpose! But the equipment was damaged all the same, and he was alone in the lab out of lesson hours, so you can imagine who the Head Teacher blamed."
Molly avoided everyone's eyes, obviously embarrassed.
"And that's not the worst", Mike added. "For me, the worst was the way he manipulated Molly to get what he wanted, you should have seen him. He seemed another person: you see him so awkward and shy, always with that sad look around him, and then you put him in front of someone he can manipulate, and he turns into a complete bastard."
"Mike!", Molly shushed, still blushing.
"No, sorry, Molly, but that's the right word. I almost pitied him in my classroom, but when I saw him clearly flirting at you to get the lab… I don't know, I didn't expect that of him, it was disappointing."
John tried to add all that information to his mental image of Sherlock Holmes (clever, bored, bullied, lonely). It was a bit too much. After a moment, when Molly berated Mike lightly and then both of them joked and things seemed to calm down, John tried to resume the issue:
"So. Then. What works with Sherlock Holmes is trying to avoid him getting bored, but cutting him short if he tries to exceed the limits, is that all?"
Mike grinned; Molly acquiesced.
"Good summary, yes!"
Thursday, last period: lab hour with Sherlock Holmes half group. John put the students in pairs, held his ground against the complaints and didn't allow any changes to the disposition he had planned. Thank God the group was odd numbers; this way no one could complain when everybody was finally sitting down with a partner, with the exception of Sherlock. The tall boy had been leaning against the wall with his usual bored look during the entire partner's sorting, but now he had a slightly puzzled expression on his face. John pointed a table in a corner, and Sherlock grabbed his schoolbag and sat down there. The worksheets John had prepared were delivered to all the students; he gave all the possible explanations and did one exercise on the blackboard, as an example. When the teenagers finally set to work, he approached Sherlock and handed him another worksheet.
"Forget that one, this is yours."
The boy's cat-like eyes stared at John (curiously, his eyes seemed deep blue that morning; John would have sworn they were grey the other day). Amused, John explained him his tasks. Sherlock's gaze swept quickly the paper and came back to his teacher's face.
"What do I owe this treatment of favour?", Sherlock asked, quietly. The other students looked at them suspiciously, but soon they were all concentrated in their set of experiments.
"Your test outcome was brilliant, Sherlock". John decided that avoiding mentioning anything the other teachers had said about him was only for the best. "Are you going to study Chemistry at Uni?"
Sherlock lowered his eyes.
"I still don't know. Perhaps."
"Good. Anyway, the experiments I had prepared for the classroom were too easy for you, so I hope these ones turn out more interesting."
John noticed the boy's pale cheeks were quite red, and when he just nodded, instead of saying "thank you", John was content enough and went to check the rest of the group. He stopped by every pair of partners, answering questions or just watching. Sherlock didn't call him for help in the whole hour. He didn't look bored, either. When at the end of the lesson he handed his worksheet out, John wasn't surprised at all to find out all the exercises were right again.
September and October passed by with the new dynamics in John's schedule: he taught his four groups in the morning, had lunch almost everyday with Mike and Molly in the school's cafeteria, came back home and marked his pupils' worksheets, prepared his lessons, printed another worksheet for next day from a school publishing website, and then took out his Chemistry books from Uni to prepare Sherlock's worksheet. It was oddly fun: every time he chose an exercise, he could picture in his mind the satisfied smirk of the boy when he finished it that week. Besides, Sherlock's attitude at the rest of his lessons had changed. He wasn't apathetic or looked bored anymore; he always paid attention to the explanations and raised his hand to ask questions. That was beginning to be an entirely different issue, in fact. His questions were usually too advanced for their level, and even his mates in the first row growled quietly every time Sherlock raised his hand. Marcie and Nell had provided a new set of gossips about Sherlock and his last years at Greenwood, and even though John just laughed a bit and begged them to please stop talking behind the back of other people, he had trouble to accommodate all those stories to the very detailed mental frame he had about a certain Sherlock Holmes. He refused to believe any of them and decided to forget them as soon as possible (well, with the obvious exception of the lab explosion last year; that story was too funny to forget. He should try to get it explained by Sherlock himself, so it wouldn't be a gossip any more). In fact, the boy was more talkative now, and he often came nearer his desk at the end of the lessons to share his thoughts about something that John had said or the outcome of an exercise. Would it have been any other student, John would feel slightly annoyed, but Sherlock was so enthusiastic and lively when talking about chemistry, that John couldn't help smiling. The change in that boy! John felt so proud, of Sherlock because of his improvement and of himself, of course. His peers wouldn't like Sherlock better now, but at least the teenager looked happy and motivated instead of bored and absent.
Sherlock soon started to stay a little longer after their lab sessions, while John tidied up and put everything away; it was their last period before lunch time, after all, so five minutes more were a trifle. But he had Mike and Molly's warning in mind. Sherlock still hadn't tried to ask for extra time at the lab, and John always checked the key twice when he was around. If something like what happened to Molly would happen to him, he would be fired in a snap, so, clever and lonely or not, John would make sure that Sherlock stayed in his place.
By the beginning of November, though, the five extra minutes had turned into twenty, John noticed with dismay. Sherlock usually worked five minutes more in an additional exercise, then helped John to tidy up and after that they just talked lively. Sherlock's enthusiasm was contagious, John admitted. But Mike had asked him twice what was delaying him at lunch time, and then John had had to sigh. He should tell Sherlock to finish in time and leave their conversations to the classroom. He would tell him that Thursday.
But when John looked at Sherlock that morning, his five extra minutes long exceeded, the teenager, aware of John's eyes on him, raised his gaze to look at him and blushed. His eyes looked greenish that day, so bright on his pale and strange features. John had needed a couple of weeks to get used to that angular and unusual face, and still had no idea if a woman would catalogue Sherlock as "attractive" or "ugly". But those eyes were truly remarkable. And why was he blushing? The boy sometimes blushed when he noticed John was looking at him, and always when John told him how brilliant and clever he was. A rather odd reaction, John thought, given that Sherlock was very aware of his cleverness and wasn't shy at all.
"Sherlock", he said after clearing his throat. The boy's eyes were piercing him, making him feel uncomfortable, but he didn't avoid Sherlock's stare. "I think we should talk about something."
The teenager lowered his eyes all of a sudden, and his blush turned scarlet.
"Nothing good has ever come out from a conversation beginning with those words", Sherlock whispered.
John giggled, feeling a bit dumb.
"Yes, you are right: bad phrasing. Anyway, the talking bit has to be done."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be that obvious."
Sherlock got up, his gaze still down, and hastened to pack his things. John frowned.
"What? Sorry, I don't know what you mean. I just think you spend too much extra time in the lab. Five minutes more is okay, but lately we always finish too late. You need that time to have lunch, and besides, you should spend your time with people your age…"
John's train of thought derailed at the sight of the disgusted expression on Sherlock's face. John recognised it: it was the same look he wore that first day, when those bullies hurt him and John asked him, rather foolishly, if he was alright.
"What's wrong now?", John asked, nervous. "Hey, don't look at me that way!"
"You can't possibly be that oblivious, can you?", the boy almost spat.
"I still have no idea what you are talking about. Do you mind being a bit more specific?"
Sherlock looked definitely angry now. He dropped his schoolbag again and faced John, suddenly tall and intimidating in front of his teacher.
"OK, Doc. Why do you think I stay longer, please tell me?"
"Ah… You like to spend time in the lab."
"Right. But I usually enjoy more of my lab time when I'm alone in it, as I'm sure Molly Hooper has told you. Now it's you who is making faces, John."
"…So you knew I have heard stories about you, alright. Does it have something to do with your sudden anger?"
Sherlock made a step forward. John gulped; Sherlock was already looming over him.
"Perhaps", the boy whispered softly. "What else have you heard?"
John raised his chin and kept his eyes on Sherlock's, refusing to feel intimidated.
"I have forgotten everything else. The explosion story was too funny, sorry, that one was impossible to forget. Did you really bring a cat to the lab?"
An involuntary half smile tugged the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He turned serious at once, but leaned back, giving John space, and sighed. He went back to pick up his schoolbag.
"It wasn't only to spend time at the lab, John; it was spending it with you."
The words were muttered so quietly that John, at first, thought he had imagined them. But no. They had been said, and now he could almost see them, as a solid presence, floating between them. Sherlock adjusted his bag on his back, avoiding John's eyes, quiet, and John knew he was waiting for some kind of response on his part, but after the momentary shock there came Mike and Molly's warning: Sherlock had flirted with Molly last year, only to manipulate her. Other bits of forgotten information came back to his mind, stories that made sense to the fact that Sherlock was now flirting with him, a male. To his own surprise, John felt more confused than angered.
"Sherlock", he said as calm as he could, "I'm not Molly Hooper."
The boy glared at him.
"That's for sure", Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "She would never mistake a real feeling for a fake one. Last year she was always aware that I had no real interest in her, and that I was just trying to be nice. I don't think she told you otherwise."
John nodded.
"True. But I still don't understand what you mean."
"What do you want, John? A love letter? God, and I thought I was being too obvious!"
It was John's turn to feel uncomfortable and take refuge in simple tidying up tasks. He refused to look at the boy while he started to pack his things.
"So it's for the best if we stop to spend more time than the strictly necessary together, then. From now on, there won't be more "extra five minutes", but don't worry: you will have your customised worksheets as usual, and I'm sure everything will be back to normal in a few days."
"So that's all?"
John felt Sherlock's looming presence again, mere inches from him. He sighed; that was the most awkward situation he could ever imagine with a pupil.
"John… Please, look at me." He did; Sherlock looked tall and strong, not a kid but a grown up man, and his whole body exhaled intensity. His bright green eyes pinned John, he barely dared to breath; and when he started talking again the deep mumble seemed to echo inside John's bones. "I know you are as lonely as I am: you don't have a woman back at home, and even though you are always friendly, you don't let others enter your personal space easily. I bet you can count your friends with the fingers of one hand. I can see a place for me there. You are already making exceptions for me, in every aspect, not just the worksheets or letting me work on my own."
John shook his head and stepped backwards using all his willpower.
"Stop, please… Sherlock, look, it's not that I'm not interested in you: you are brilliant, and I'm proud of you, really. But I'm your teacher, we can't have a real friendly relationship. Besides, I'm not interested in men, and I'm twelve years your senior, and we don't really know each other… Do I have to go on?"
Sherlock gave him what can only be called a "winning grin".
"You were born in the North, not in the country and not in a big town. You are not in touch with your parents; perhaps they are dead, or perhaps they didn't approve of your joining the army. You have one younger sister, but you are not very close, because you never speak of her. You studied Medicine at St. Bartholomew, with Mike Stamford, but instead of working as a doctor or as a teacher, you opted by army doctor. You got shot, in your shoulder, but you have a psychosomatic pain in your leg that makes you limp slightly. You forget that pain during the lessons, so it's boredom and inactivity what causes it. I bet you miss the war, the risk. You are an action man, John, you are not made to live an average life and teaching will only help you for a while, and only moderately. In a couple of months, when the novelty has worn out, you will limp again. Do I have to go on?"
The above tirade was whispered without a pause to breath, and if Sherlock's intensity had been uncomfortable some minutes before, now it was overwhelming. John gulped.
"Sherlock. Please go out. Now."
The boy growled. He didn't say anything else, but turned towards John in the door, and there were only hurt feelings on his face. When he finally closed the door behind him, John let himself drop on his chair. He hid his face in his hands, trying to decide how he felt. Angry? Yes. He was angry, of course. All was going so smoothly, he went to work every day feeling almost happy, for the first time since his return, and now it was all wrong again. Annoyed? Yes, that too. His first impression of the boy was the good one, Sherlock was odd. He was observant, but that amount of data about him? What had he done, follow him? Search his bag and his pockets? What face would he possibly make next Monday? He would have to pretend nothing was wrong in front of the rest of the group. Was Sherlock going to pretend, too, or would he be acting as a spoiled child who was refused to have his favourite toy? Confused? Yes. How didn't he notice Sherlock's attitude towards him? Was he pretending after all, and this was Molly Hooper's second part? Or was it real? Was Sherlock besotted with him? Why, why on Earth with him? A brilliant, attractive (yes, decidedly attractive) teenager, what the hell would he want to do with a twenty-nine year old ex-army doctor? A limping, average, boring, lonely ex-army doctor, who if Sherlock was right (and when wasn't he right?), would be using a cane again after Christmas.
Suddenly, the door opened again, and Sherlock's face appeared at the frame. John felt tired, very, very tired.
"Sherlock, please, we can talk again next Monday if you want…"
The look on Sherlock's face made him stop. Alarm was clearly shown in all his features.
"It's not about me, John. Come along, quickly!"
The doctor took his bag and followed Sherlock, almost running. They went down a flight of stairs, and then Sherlock stopped and approached, slowly, the empty space behind the stairs, a spot very similar to the one John had seen him the first time. And, the same as that time, now the space wasn't really empty, as John realised. A girl was sitting on the floor, her face on her knees, clearly sobbing.
"Claire, I've brought Professor Watson; he is a doctor". Sherlock's voice was careful and quiet, and he stood some feet away from the girl.
The girl raised her face, covered in tears, and John recognised her: she was in Sherlock's group.
"Claire, calm down. Please, tell me what happened."
The girl hiccoughed, contorting her features, and instead of answering, she opened her legs, separating her knees, which had previously been glued together. Her skirt was a bit torn, and John's heart skipped a beat when he saw the stream of blood running down her thighs and pooling on the floor.