Counting Stars (Chapter 2)
Goodness Gracious
No one in our support group ever wants to meet downstairs. I mean, who wouldn't? It's a basement, aka dark, creepy, lots of shadows, except for a few windows on three walls that always have the blinds pulled over them. If they would actually open them, another reason being it's warm outside, it would be a pretty nice room. It's comfy on its own; there's a couch on the far wall, and the rest of the chairs have cushions on the seats and are arranged in a circle, couch included.
A folding table is always set up with drinks, particularly lemonade, and snacks like cookies, crackers, and certain vegetables. No peanut butter is allowed because of allergy purposes, but that just means I can eat all the peanut butter I want at home.
My friend Greg Lestrade, who's half blind, sits on the far right side of the couch, cool sunglasses perched on his nose to make him look spiffy. His hair is short and little hairs stick up on his hair, their color resembling a pitch-black sky. Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan are still upstairs, but our group leader Anderson, a kid named Henry Knight, and the new tall guy with curly brown hair are already seated and immersed in a conversation. Lestrade sits alone, nit talking to anyone even if he's the joker of us all.
I drag my wheeled oxygen tank over to the empty chair next to him. The kid with no name yet sits across from me in the circle and Anderson is always in the center of the entire group. I scan the mostly empty room with my eyes and nite who sits where, even if they had possibly passed away a few days prior from battling a disease. Molly, Mary, Henry, Irene, new kid, Anderson, Sally, Jim, me, Greg. There are a few empty spaces between us, and I assume either no one wants to come or we lost a whole bunch of our friends.
The elevator door pulls open and the two girls step out, the ginger and blonde sitting next to each other. They both smile and ask how I'm doing, and I always reply the same thing. "Fine, thanks."
Our meeting starts a few minutes late since we all tell Anderson who is here, and he waits for them to join us down in the basement. Lestrade nibbles on a chocolate chip cookie and Mary sips from a Dixie cup filled with pink lemonade. Jim sits right next to me and gloats. He's the bully of the group and no one seems to like him, but when he cooperates he's actually a pretty nice guy. I forget what type of disease he has, but it has something to do with his brain, I remember that much. His black hair is always slicked back by a bomb and looks wet, possibly a factor if he takes a shower every morning. But when he gets bored in our support group meetings, he starts to elbow me in the ribs for fun, which is not particularly healthy for my lungs.
Every meeting starts the same usual way: an introduction of ourselves. We say our name, age and how we're doing. John, 16, been great, is what I would say when they reach me. Greg always begins since he's so willing to share his thoughts, and then when Molly goes she resembles a mouse. We go right around the circle, meaning I am last.
I know Mary has breast cancer, but I truly can't recall half of the diseases in the room. I've lost track or tend to zone out for most of our time together. Lestrade is half blind, Jim has a brain problem, and I really don't know anything else.
I do perk up a little however when the new addition to our group is up to speak for the first time. In order to be heard, he chooses to stand and show off. He towers over us with his wondering blue-green eyes, not feeling the least bit nervous as he prepares his short speech. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he says, his voice rising at the end of his sentence. "I've been in remission for about half a year now." There's a slight noise of clapping around the cluster of chairs, congratulating him on his short recovery period.
Anderson speaks over the banging of hands and offers Sherlock an opportunity to tell a bit about himself. "What should we know about you?"
"Well, as one of you already knows," he gestures to me with his entire hand, palm up to the ceiling, "I've got a rather odd talent."
He doesn't know my name yet, but I can't help but comment back on the lacking statement. "I'll say," I mumble under my breath, and only Greg hears me. He finds it hilarious and bursts out into laughter. I give a slight chuckle too and nudge him with my elbow, smiling effortlessly and secretly telling him to shut up. What I find interesting is that our newcomer doesn't give a look and explain how we're being rude, and instead he just smirks like he's proud of himself.
"And what kind of skill is this?" Anderson asks, the one who seems 100% remotely engaged in the conversation. Of course us others are listening and paying attention, and occasionally there's a crack of someone popping air in their joint or cracking a snack with their jaw. A slurp made be heard when someone is drinking, but everyone is for the most part quiet.
Holmes looks around the circle once before going on. I think he's doing what he did to me to everyone else. "I can tell almost your whole life story by one look at you."
Most of the girls pause and look disgusted. "Isn't that a tad bit creepy?" Irene questions, sitting with perfect posture in her chair.
"No kidding," Henry adds.
"It's true." I decide to share our story of our first letting in shorter terms. "I've seen him do it. Not ten minutes ago as well." The new kid gives me a heartwarming smile, like I'm telling a compliment about him.
The brunette turns his head to Henry and inputs something he really shouldn't have said. "Oh, and says the one who had a father who worked in a science lab as a security guard and spied on people all day." The receiver went dead quiet and refused to add anything else.
She's so appalled that Molly has to mention an important point to him. "You do still know that was personal and didn't need to be claimed out loud, right?"
"I take pride in my ability to make myself more confident and brilliant than other human beings." A hush went over the room and we all sat stunned. Who did this guy think he was? A superior god? In my opinion, he seemed like a jerk.
But I shouldn't judge him right away, because I barely even know the dude.
"So..." I think that's the first time someone has sent Anderson into silence, not knowing how to pick up the discussion again. "Would you like to share some of your fears with the group, Sherlock?"
"My fears?" He sounds both willing yet uncomprehending at the same moment, his voice ending the question in a high-pitched note. "I'm sure I have some, but they're not coming to me right now. And why I would tell you anyways is ridiculous, considering my fears are personal."
Jim shifted next to me and raised his hand a little, removing his opposite hand from his mouth. He tends to chew on his fingernails, and I find the tiny chomping noises to be distracting and disgusting. "But, we all did it when we first came here. Shared our fears I mean."
"Well I'm sorry to inform you that you won't be getting answers from me." I felt a tap on my shoulder to my left. Lestrade had grabbed my attention from the couch, and I breathed out of my mouth, my nose exhaling some air into the cannula. He made a gesture with his hands, telling me without words that this newbie was crazy. I whispered back, "I know," nodding my head in agreement.
"Okay, then we shall be moving on, I guess." From the alarmed sound of his voice, Anderson no longer wanted to talk to such a rude person. Sally goes next, and then I dread the moment when it's Jim's turn to go.
"I'm Jim Moriarty," he says smugly, claiming his place as the most outgoing and powerful in the group. "15 years old, 16 next week. I hate the internal distinction my brain is supplying me with, but I'm hanging in there." He sits Bach down and I know it's my small moment in the spotlight. I hate being pushed into talking alone in front of people, but I've learned to deal with it in my time being here.
Phillip Anderson lets me sit when I speak, since he knows I have problems with breathing even when I have to stand up. Besides, I'm comfy and tend to be lazy. So instead of standing, I elect to sit up a little higher in my seat, closing off the introductions with more or less of a bang.
"Hi everybody. As most of you already know, I'm John." Sherlock had his eyes locked on me, and I don't know why my cheeks become hot and turn pink. "I turned 16 a few months ago. Have ling cancer, and I'm doing okay."
"Have they gotten better?" Mary fires a question at me with a soft tone. She always talks like that, since she's a very close friend of mine. A few heads turn to look at her, and then they flew back yo me as I report the news.
"Sadly, no. Nothing has progressed dramatically, but my lungs haven't gotten worse either. Thanks for asking." She smiles cutely and hunches back in her chair, her blonde hair neatly swept off the side of her forehead.
Our meeting continues with us telling personal stories, which Holmes doesn't get into. He just dist patiently and listens, being polite unlike the manners he was showing earlier. The setup of our discussions is the same every week. Introductions, stories, life, and then we close off with reading a list of names of people who used to be with us and have now passed away. We all stand, including me, and hold hands in our circle. The list goes on and on, but when it's finally over Anderson wishes us good do and lets us be free for the remained if our Sunday. Our meetings typically last an hour, but today we didn't stay for as long and it's only 1:53 P.M.
I have to take the elevator to get back upstairs, because if I don't I'll surely pass out. The cannula slid a little out of place as I stood to depart, and so as I push the button to open the doors I stick it back into the position so it doesn't bother me. Molly and Lestrade both get into the elevator with me, and I say farewell as I leave them and go to stand outside and wait for my mom. She usually leaves the house when we have a quarter of an hour left, and so today she is still on the road.
I'm surprised to see Sherlock is standing alone on the sidewalk, bouncing on his feet with his arms behind his back. I know he's a bit of an odd fellow, but I decide to get along with him and try to make a new friend anyways. I never told him something mean earlier in our meeting, so I suppose I don't have to apologize for it.
"Hello." He turns around to come in eye contact with me.
"Oh. Hi." I can tell he's bad with talking to people.
"You got an odd sort of personality." My sentence folds out into a whisper because I don't really want him to hear me.
"And you don't?" he questions back, raising an eyebrow for an effect. I stare at the parking lot in disbelief.
"Sorry." I'm completely startled when I hear the word pop out of his mouth. "That was a bit, uncalled for."
"Yeah...Just a bit." I watch him as he shuffles around, trying to plan his next move with caution.
He finally comes to a wise decision and has to bend his head down a tad to look at me in the eyes. "What's your name?"
I find myself replying quickly without even any hint of comprehension, knowing that Sherlock had learned my name earlier. "John."
"What's your full name?" He wants more than just what I told him.
"John H. Watson."
"What does the 'H' stand for?"
"Why would I tell you that?" I ask, giving him a look because he's almost a total stranger to me. "For god's sake, you could be a serial killer for all I know."
He nods his head in amusement. "Not far off on the target, actually." My pupils go wide in alarm.
"That's a joke right?" I just want to make sure as I lowered my eyelids to squint with suspicion at him.
"Of course it was."
"Oh good." You can pick out the relief in my voice. There's a moment of silence before I pick up the conversation again. "Funny thing you did to me, right when I first approached you. Nice way to meet someone for the first time."
"Are you insulting my behavioral actions?"
I back up a little in fright. "No!" The wheels on my oxygen tank get stuck in a crack that had formed in the pavement, but it's not enough for me to trip over it. "It's just so..." I stumble to find the right phrase, "not ordinary."
Holmes just sort of hums and I bend my head down, almost in shame. He speaks before I can come to mu senses to do so first. "I'm quite surprised you didn't say something much harsher when I made those deductions about you."
"And why's that?" I ask, curious.
"That's not how people normally respond."
"What do people normally say?"
He fires back a rude remark. "Piss off."
I laugh a little and roll my bag I carry with me at all times slightly closer. "So am I enlightening you?" I wonder, thinking that meant I was different and unique compared to other humans. Perhaps I was meant to meet this guy, that I would have a strong bond with him.
"Maybe. I think you're trying to recruit yourself."
"As in?"
He smiles at me like I'm a pleasant flower. "You still trust me."
I stare with my lips open for a few seconds in silence before I get up the nerve to get to know him better. "And what makes you say that?"
"You know where to balance you right and wrongs on a scale. Strong moral principles. If you thought I was the incorrect person to hang around, you wouldn't be talking to me right now."
He's insane yet speaks every word as the truth. I'm both sent into amazement and flattery at the same time. "Damn," I compliment, "you're absolutely right." He smirks once more to prove the truth as he knows so. "I'll give you credit for that one."
He's frozen like a statue and watches my every move. I even gesture my hand to him as a sign of overwhelming shock and yet he remains still. "Why are you staring at me?" I suddenly blurt out, hoping the answer is not what I think it is. Come on, I just met the guy for god's sake. Surely he wouldn't get interests in me that quickly.
"Because John H. Watson —"
"Just John," I say, cutting him off.
He goes on like nothing happened. "You're going to be some very good use to me."
"And how do you know that?" I question, knowing he won't get away with it this time.
"Because you know that helping me is the right thing to do. Again, strong moral principles," he adds, winking in my direction.
I catch on that he didn't mention what I was helping him with. "So, what am I to do?"
He smiles. "Why not influence a life?" And with his comment he decides to leave me be, strolling down the sidewalk so I am alone to consider his thought. I let my oxygen tank flow air into me, and I tap my foot on the ground to get rid of my stumped posture.
I feel a vibration against my thigh and pull out my cell phone. A message has been sent to me from an unknown number, but I read the text anyways. One word is flashing on the screen, and after it come two initials which undoubtedly belong to my new oddly-made friend. I look up from the device and see Sherlock slouching against the corner of the next building over, a grin spread over his cheeks and, to my slight horror, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
Dinner? -SH
