John's Wednesday morning free periods slowly but surely became infected with Sherlock Holmes' silent presence, he entered at 9:01 and left at 9:52, right on schedule, every week like clockwork. In fact, John found himself so used to Sherlock's schedule of appearances he even began bringing two cups of coffee with him to his classroom each week. Sherlock soundlessly accepted the steaming mug from him every Wednesday with a slight incline of his head in a grateful nod and took his usual seat on the front row, pouring over books, examining slides under microscopes, or writing extra papers for John to mark for him.
When it became close to next period, Sherlock stood and hitched his satchel over his shoulder, brushing shoulders with John as he lay down his empty mug next to his and left John with the smell of aftershave and faint cigarette smoke in a temporary cloud until his next class came pouring in.
John was handing back past-papers, winding around the science benches and placing people's papers brandished with red or green pen, grades circled with marker.
He passed Sherlock at the end, sliding his paper onto his desk where his long fingers were taking his pen apart, piece by piece.
"Brilliant, as always. Well done, Sherlock" he praised him quietly and moved on to the next student, as Sherlock looked down at his A* with inexpressive eyes, sliding it into the back compartment of his satchel.
"Sherlock?"
He lifted his head.
"Do your parents know that you smoke?"
"My parents are dead" Sherlock replied, blinking back at John.
John apologised hesitantly, berating himself internally, and Sherlock responded with the tiniest of sad smiles, but John thinks that it's progress. They returned to comfortable silence.
Mycroft returns at the end of the week, and Sherlock is annoyed to have his presence lurking around the house once more. He is also trying harder than ever to keep his thoughts inaccessible, not wanting his brother to find out about Dr Watson yet. Dr Watson was Sherlock's secret.
"Sherlock, where is my shoe horn?" Mycroft called.
"How would I know?" Sherlock replied with irritation evident in his voice.
"I thought you knew everything," Mycroft taunted in response and Sherlock marched over to the umbrella stand in the next room and pulled out said shoe horn, throwing it at his brother's head.
Mycroft frowned at his brother's rudeness, catching it mid-air and replying with a sarcastic and over-exaggerated "Thank you" to which Sherlock stomped back to his own room.
Sherlock had just left the chemistry lab at 5:52pm, supposing that reception staff had left by now, he headed for an alternative exit. Mrs Hudson had been more chipper today, Sherlock had deduced it definitely had something to do with her new lover she'd managed to secure three days ago at a bingo game in West London but not mentioned anything about it.
Sherlock fiddled with a loose thread hanging from his sleeve and focused on the direction of his feet until he heard an additional set of irregular footsteps behind him and turned.
"Hi, Sherlock" Dr Watson called out, chequered shirt tucked under thick oatmeal jumper and a sandalwood coloured satchel slung over his right shoulder, bulging with textbooks and ungraded papers.
"Dr Watson" Sherlock acknowledged, unconsciously slowing his steps to walk in tandem with his teacher.
"Why are you in school this late?" John asked, looking over to Sherlock who has his head hanging down, black curls falling forward from his pale forehead.
"I usually stay later than this," Sherlock started. "But Mycroft has insisted I come home for 5:30 at the latest today."
"Mycroft?" John asked with interest, as they approached the end of the corridor.
"My brother" Sherlock supplied, voice dripping with disdain.
"Oh," John stretched his hand by his side. "I didn't know you had one"
Sherlock glanced at him, knowing that his teacher had probably forgotten that Sherlock had told him about Mycroft in their first conversation, and then put his hands in his pockets. "You don't know much about me, Dr Watson."
"That's true," John agreed, pushing open the door to the back entrance, using his electronic key card to unlock the automatic doors and holding the door open for Sherlock. "You do realise it is past 5:30?"
Sherlock slid underneath Dr Watson's arm that held the door open and was immediately hit with bitter cold winter air. "Of course I do"
"You're being late on purpose?" Sherlock noticed a look of confusion pass Dr Watson's face.
"Yes" Sherlock supplied without explanation.
John shook his head and carried on walking, only noticing Sherlock's absence when he realised only the sound of his own footsteps now hit the ground. He turned to see him lighting a cigarette against the wall.
"You shouldn't smoke" John scolds, and Sherlock laughs.
"How endearing" Sherlock took his first drag and pushed forward off the wall, moving closer to the projection of John's body heat.
"What is?"
"You. Trying to sound authoritive, it's entertaining." Sherlock smirked at him and exhales in a curl of white smoke, hanging in the air and then drifting away.
John frowned to himself "I am authoritive"
Sherlock gave him a look.
"Okay, maybe not to you, but you don't find anybody intimidating. I'm authoritive to others." John insisted, and Sherlock noticed the way Dr Watson's arms come to fold close against his chest to give the illusion of height and power.
Sherlock offered out his cigarette between his fingers. John shakes his head.
"I don't smoke," he reacts. "Plus, it would be kind of inappropriate"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dull"
"What is?"
"Rules."
John found himself laughing a little hysterically, as Sherlock allowed his lips to stretch slowly into a smile in response.
Eventually, Sherlock stamped out his cigarette on the ground and kicked the trodden filter into a gutter, flicking his coat about until his collar came up around his neck, framing his face in a way that prompted John to look at it for a little longer than he should have.
"How are you getting home?" John asked when they reached the cars.
"Walking," Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets and pulled out his new leather gloves, slipping them onto his frozen fingers.
"In this weather? You'll freeze to death" John insisted with a chatter to his teeth, hands rubbing together to trap the warmth in.
"Highly unlikely, the statistical likelihood of death from fr-"
"Sherlock, how far away do you live?"
Sherlock stopped, narrowing his eyes momentarily "about half an hour's walk"
John thinks he is doing the responsible thing by considering giving a student a lift home, bearing in mind it was late and getting dark, and nobody is safe walking home alone in the dark, not even Sherlock. This is what he tries to convince himself as he asks Sherlock if he would like a lift home.
"Why?" Sherlock questioned suspiciously.
"Because you shouldn't be walking home on your own at this time of night. If you feel uncomfortable with being in a car alone with me then I can contact somebody who can come and pick you up, or call a taxi, if you'd like-"
"But why?"
John paused, "What do you mean, why?"
"Why do you care?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused with the concept that John cared about his wellbeing, which made the teacher internally curse whatever made Sherlock feel like he was so alone in this world.
"Why shouldn't I? It's freezing out here, stop being so damn irritating and get in." John unlocked the car with his key-fob and climbed into the driver's seat, wiping the condensation from the windscreen with a sponge tucked in the holder at his right.
Sherlock sat tentatively down on the seat next to his teacher, yanking his seatbelt across and providing his address when John asked for it.
They sat in another one of their comfortable silences until John gestured to the radio, telling Sherlock to put on what he would like. "I don't care much for the music of today" Sherlock replied quietly.
John leant over and jabbed at the buttons with his free hand, "Nonsense, there's loads on here. You're bound to find something you like." John skipped over the channels until Sherlock's hand stopped him, pressing the back button onto Classics FM at hearing the passing notes of a violin.
Both men resolutely ignore the brush of fingertips that the radio decisions had caused, John listening intently to the new genre of music that Sherlock had introduced him to.
"Just here will do," Sherlock gestured to the side road, unfastening his seat belt as John pulls up around the corner from his house. "Thank you, Dr Watson."
John winced, "You don't have to be so formal all the time, 'Dr Watson' makes me feel so old" he laughed, half serious, half joking.
Sherlock stopped, turning his head back to his teacher. "What would you rather me call you? Sir?"
John shook his head, "No," he hesitates, and then jumps straight off the diving board and into the deep end. "You can call me John"
With a pause of uncertainty, Sherlock watched Dr Watson's face for signs of regret or repulsion, but there are none, only calmness with an open and trusting expression which scared Sherlock just a little bit.
"John," he repeated back to him, and John tried to ignore the fact that he likes the sound of his name coming from Sherlock's mouth.
John nodded, and Sherlock blinked back at him, before turning his head away and pushing down the door handle, stepping back out into the cold.
Mycroft says nothing to him on his return, he'd expected Sherlock to be late and as usual, he was right to predict so.
"Are we going?" Sherlock asked, ripping off his scarf and tossing it over the chair.
"Yes, it starts in an hour" Mycroft responded absently, flicking through a stapled document of 121 pages.
Sherlock goes straight upstairs, forcing himself to keep his brain in semi-structured order instead of what was actually happening inside his head.
John. John, John, John. John.
He slid off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt in a haste, yanking at the zip of his trousers until he was stood in his boxers in front of the mirror, staring at the wide uncertain eyes in the reflection. His eyes slid down the pale expanse of his own skin, muscled in places, smooth and flat in others, smatterings of hair around scars, blemishes and marks of blush, the blush rising straight to his cheeks.
Blush?
Sherlock grunted, snapping himself out of it. Such a human reaction.
He dressed quickly afterwards, opting for a pale blue shirt and his second favourite suit.
"Sherlock- wear a tie", Mycroft called from downstairs.
"No!" He shouted back in defiance.
"I'm sure the opera won't miss you, then" the calm voice sounded closer as Mycroft walks upstairs, heading for his own room.
Sherlock cursed under his breath and reaches for his only tie, skinny black patterned silk, one his mother had bought him years ago for his birthday after he had started to dress up in suits similar to his father's and Mycroft's.
Mycroft knocked and entered. "Much better."
"Irritating", he fiddled with the knot at his throat.
"Let's go"
John sat at home on a Thursday night and drowned his sorrows with a pint of beer and the discography of Bon Jovi. He didn't realise how deeply he was hooked, until it hit him that he might be attracted to one of his own students. And however hard he tried to convince himself it was wrong, he couldn't stop seeing Sherlock's face every-time he closed his eyes to block out the blinding light.
Shit.
To: Greg Lestrade
Have you ever got through to Sherlock before?
From: Greg Lestrade
I wish. Why do you ask?
To: Greg Lestrade
Just wondering. Do you think he's lonely?
John stared at the ceiling and realised that he'd probably drank too much, and probably shouldn't be discussing a student via text to another teacher, but he trusted Greg, and he knew he wouldn't tell anybody.
From: Greg Lestrade
Probably. I've given up trying to understand or help him, he won't accept it.
John takes a minute to reply, in the process receiving another text from Greg.
From: Greg Lestrade
Are you having trouble with him? Do you need me to speak to him?
To: Greg Lestrade
No, it will be fine. Just curious mate.
From: Greg Lestrade
Aren't we all.
Sherlock found himself anticipating Wednesday more than ever.
John tried not to think too hard about the strong smell of aftershave and cigarette smoke missing from his classroom.
Sherlock entered and walked straight over to John, who was slumped over his desk wearing reading glasses that slid down his nose persistently every time he straightened them.
"Morning, Sherlock"
"John," Sherlock nodded to him, and John checks the door is closed, so nobody can hear the agreed use of his first name by one of his students.
"Don't worry, I took care of it" Sherlock reassured him, and John startled at the psychic speed he had answered John's thoughts.
"I probably shouldn't have given you that permission" John reflected, worrying his lip between his teeth absently as Sherlock pulled a stool over to his desk and sits to the side reading equations from the whiteboard.
"Would you like to relinquish it?" Sherlock deadpans, not showing any signs of being phased by John's outward sense of regret.
John pulled his glasses away from his face, waiting for Sherlock to look back to him. "No...as long as you are aware of situations in not to use my first name"
"I'm not stupid, John." Sherlock informed him.
"I know that," John smiled.
"Good," Sherlock smirked to himself, pulling over the Biology textbook that John is using. "I'm glad."
"Glad?!" John repeated incredulously. "Sherlock Holmes is capable of emotion?"
Sherlock glared at him and shut the textbook with a snap, "I'm capable of hatred, too, you know" he hinted.
John settled back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. "You could never hate me"
"Couldn't I?" Sherlock challenged.
The tension in the air was thick as Sherlock returned to the front bench of the classroom, sliding backwards onto the table and letting his long legs dangle out in front, leaning back on his arms.
John tried so desperately hard not to let his eyes follow downwards when Sherlock's shirt lifts and exposes the tiniest show of pale skin, his hipbone jutting out from his skinny frame.
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow without saying a word, and John turned so bright red he practically shrunk in on himself, hoping to God that Sherlock wouldn't point it out.
He doesn't. In fact, when John looks back to him, his gaze is intense and involved. "I don't think I could, actually." fingers skittering across the worktop.
John heard his breath hitch before feeling it. "Couldn't what?"
"Hate you," Sherlock bounces back. "And I have no idea why."
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" John tapped his pen steadily against his leg.
Sherlock clasped his hands together, positioning them in a steeple underneath his chin. "I haven't decided yet."
Sherlock misses another two and a half lessons in the next week, and John is concerned by the content that he is missing, no matter how much of a genius he claims to be.
This is partly the reason why he decides to corner him the upcoming Wednesday.
"You need to attend catch-up sessions" John insisted, as soon as Sherlock entered the room.
Sherlock's jaw actually dropped open. "Tell me you're joking"
John raised an eyebrow, holding out Sherlock's coffee mug regardless.
"John," he hissed, keeping his voice down due to the open door. "Those classes are for imbeciles! I refuse to be deemed as the same standard as the scum of the school."
John sighed, "Sherlock-"
"No!" he practically stomped, shouting in defiance.
"Calm down!" he raised his voice above Sherlock's, "Sit down."
Sherlock proved his point by marching over to the window instead.
"If it's this much of a problem, I can privately tutor your catch up sessions?" John suggested.
Sherlock considered this. "So I wouldn't have to deal with people?"
"Nope, just me"
Just John. "Fine."
"Don't sound too excited" John added sarcastically, flinging an elastic band from his desk onto Sherlock's mop of curls where he is still looming at the window. He turned with a face of disdain and flinged the elastic band straight back to John.
Their first catch up session began with ten minutes spent trying to get Sherlock to actually take the whole concept seriously. John made him sit in his Biology class seat and get his refill pad out to take notes. Sherlock stated that he never makes notes, that he doesn't need to, his brain will register the important areas. John ended up explaining three times to Sherlock that some things Sherlock might deem unimportant areas are the bits he needs to know to pass the exam and actually get an A level in Biology.
John eventually gets him to shut up, and begins to move around the white board, drawing diagrams for mitosis and going back over the processes Sherlock had missed in his absence. The only problem was that Sherlock interrupted him every two minutes by finishing John's sentences for him, if only to prove a point, that he didn't need these catch up sessions at all.
"Have we established that I am fine without these sessions yet?" Sherlock groaned, face down on the table where he sat.
"It's better to be safe than sorry, I want to know I'm doing my job properly by making sure you understand the syllabus requirements."
"I know the syllabus like the back of my hand"
John put his hands on his hips in defeat for a moment, "You know what, I think we need a break for now anyway." He walked straight over to his bag and pulled out a litre bottle of water, uncapping the bottle and wetting his tongue that was dry from talking.
Sherlock watched him as usual, silent and furtive until disturbed by John with a question, or until he thought of a question himself to ask John.
"So, what are you doing when you get home tonight?" John asked finally, snapping the genius out of his brainstorm..
"I imagine I will irritate my brother for a while and then retire to the library and lie on the floor for a while. Who knows"
With a pitying glance towards his student, John took a leap. "That doesn't sound very fun, don't you have a girlfriend or anyone to go meet up with?"
Sherlock turned slowly as if suspicious he was being tested, staring at the man in front of him for a moment before shaking his head. "Not really my area."
John didn't quite know how to respond to this, until he realised his mistake. "Oh...do you have a boyfriend, then?"
"No," Sherlock noticed the faint embarrassment John felt. "I do not have a boyfriend."
"Unattached then," John nodded, turning in a circle and walking back to his desk, saying under his breath "Just like me" and half hoping Sherlock had heard it.
He did.
"Excuse me, Dr Watson? Could I speak to Sherlock Holmes, please?" the head-teacher entered with a paler face than usual, and John felt himself go slightly pale at the thought of what Sherlock possibly could have done now and how many times they would allow his misbehaviour before he was expelled for it.
"Sure, Sherlock?" John prompted, sending the boy on the front row a look when he looked up with heavy eyes looking as though he was about to fall asleep then and there. He heaved himself up with a loud and purposeful sigh, weaving around the lab bench and following the overweight man outside.
In order to not let his composure slip, John immediately launched back into teaching, going through the mark scheme for questions on the repercussions of kidney dialysis. Sherlock entered the room again 5 minutes later with a forceful shove to the door behind him with his foot to close it. He trudged back to his chair without looking at anyone, buried in his own head.
"What was that about?" John asked as soon as the last student filtered out, leaving Sherlock who was packing his equipment away purposefully slowly.
"There has been a complaint filed against me" he drawled, the most bored and unaffected sound John had heard come from him.
"What? From who?" He stood from his seat immediately, walking over to where Sherlock's desk was.
"A teacher, apparently."
"For doing what? Your behaviour has been so much better lately"
Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed defiantly, "Smoking."
With an exasperated look to the ceiling, John leaned his head back. "Well, I hate to say I told you so but..."
"But you told me so." Sherlock finished his sentence for him, and John picked up on a mutter of 'predictable' under his breath.
Piling everything into his hands and straight down into his bag messily, Sherlock pushed his bag on to the floor and leant forward on his elbows, focusing on John.
"What did Sir say?" John inquired, stepping sideways and away in case any passersby seemed suspicious.
"If I'm caught smoking again on school grounds I'm suspended for a week."
John paused, cup of tea half way to his mouth, and slowly lowered his mug. "Please try not to get yourself suspended, it really doesn't look good on your record, Sherlock."
"I don't care about that, I just want to do what I want without idiotic people getting in the way of everything actually fun in life" He gesticulated wildly, hoping John would understand.
"I know you don't care, but you should." John scolded, heading for the whiteboard spray to clean to board of pen.
"Why do you care anyway?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Because I don't want you to be expelled, that's why" John huffed, stretching on his tip-toes to reach the title at the top.
Sherlock sits quietly until John faces him again.
"Don't you ever get tired of constantly pushing people away?" His teacher sighed, trying and failing to figure Sherlock out.
"It's a necessity to access life's basic tools of control to circumvent unnecessary hindrances of human emotion." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.
"Right. I probably should have expected an answer like that." His phone buzzed in his pocket as he frowned in response to Sherlock. His lock-screen lit up with a message.
From: Harry
Coming out for drinks tonight?
John sighed and pocketed the device, bringing his attention back to Sherlock who was staring intently at the phone in his pocket. "Family member, estranged although trying to gain contact, from the observation of ignorance from your side you are not as interested as the featured party. So, rivalry there, statistically less likely to be parents due to your age-"
"Hey!" John cried indignantly.
"Sibling rivalry?" Sherlock supplied at last.
"Not that dramatic, but yes, it was my sister. Impressive." He sent Sherlock a stern but helplessly amazed look by the young man's deduction skills, which earned another stroke to Sherlock's ever-growing ego as he sat there smirking in return.
With a shake of his head, John lifted his satchel over his shoulder and flicked off the lights at the front of the classroom. "Anyway, I best be off."
Sherlock stood to follow him, retrieved his own bag and jumped over the benches, ignoring the look it earned from John. "Dentist appointment?"
John paused and turned to look at him. "How did you kn- never mind."
Sherlock held the door open for his teacher, stepping into the empty hallway, most students and teachers had, as usual, gone home by this time, so Sherlock and John were alone in the silence.
Sherlock paused at the stairwell closest to the chemistry labs, knowing that John would cut through the staff room to leave the building.
"Are you staying behind?" John asked after realising he had stopped.
He nodded in answer.
"See you tomorrow then?" John sounded hopeful, and Sherlock rocked on his heels in response, digging his hands into his coat pockets.
"Yes," he said finally, and with a twirl of fabric, he descended down the stairs to the labs, leaving John to go his separate ways.
Sherlock was seething.
He dug his fingers into the wooden frame of the bench in front of him, curling his nails into the soft MDF board and leaving crescent moon shapes underneath. He barely registered the half amused, half concerned glances that John was directing towards him every so often he was so overcome with rage.
"Oh, Sir, I know the answer to this one!" the shrill voice accompanied with a waving hand in the air echoed from the other end of the bench to him.
Sherlock snapped his head around, sending the deadliest glare he could muster towards the new boy who was content on spending every waking second trying to outsmart him and prove he was the most intelligent.
Anderson had been praised by John three times already that lesson, and Sherlock had hated every minute of it.
John looked around hopefully, observing the blank faces of the rest of the students who were just letting Philip do all of the work. He sighed.
"Yes, Philip?"
"The role of plasma cells and memory cells produce a secondary response-"
"Wrong." Sherlock droned from the other side of the classroom, and John sent him a desperate look begging him not to start an argument with the new kid like he so desperately wanted to.
"Excuse me?" Anderson snorted, turning his entire body around in his chair to face the accusing voice coming from his left.
"I said wrong. Phagocytises, lysosomes and lysosomal enzymes in the subsequent destruction of ingested pathogens allow a defensive function in mammalian blood." Sherlock returned in a monotonous voice.
"Well, I think you'll find that if you refer to the syllabus-" Anderson started, and Sherlock laughed loudly to interrupt him. "What is so funny?!"
"Syllabus," he scoffed. "If you refer to that as your most prominent point of reference then you're definitely even more unintelligent than I thought you were in the first place."
"Sherlock-" John started, deciding to break up the argument before it gets out of hand, and knowing Sherlock, it will. "Stop the drama, please, you are both right."
Anderson sent a triumphantly smug look over to Sherlock and sat up straighter and more primly on his stool, folding his hands over one another.
Sherlock sent John the most desperate look he could muster, mentally begging for him to remove Anderson from the class so he wouldn't have to put up with the stupidity of the boy.
Instead, John pointedly turned his back on Sherlock and returned to the whiteboard to continue teaching, and Sherlock glared intensely at the clock in the hopes it would make the minutes pass faster.
The bell eventually rang for lunchtime, and Sherlock stared Anderson out as he trotted to the front desk and handed John his paper with a flourish. Sherlock began to plan ways to get the paper from John later on, knowing how easily distracted the doctor could become.
"What the hell was that all about?" John asked the second the last student left the room.
"I hate him." Sherlock replied, leaping up from his seat at once and gesticulating wildly in front of John's desk where he sat dumfounded.
"Sherlock, he literally just joined the school two hours ago. What has made you so detestable of him?"
"He thinks he is more intelligent than me, John, did you see the way he looked at me today, and the way he looked at you? He practically hung off your every word for God sake." He stood and paced the stretch of windows to the right side wall of the room, still ranting to himself.
"He is supposed to hang off my every word if I am teaching, that is how you learn, Sherlock"
Sherlock waved his hand in John's general direction. "Stupid."
"Who is? I hope you aren't talking about me" Sherlock heard John use his 'teacher voice' and rolled his eyes.
"No. Anderson. Keep up, John!"
John sighed, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, "God knows i'm trying..."
Sherlock scowled at him and pushed open the closest window, observing the people milling around on the concrete outside, as the remains of last night's bout of snow had settled in the corners and some surfaces. Sherlock supposed that they were about to do something completely mundane like start a snowball fight.
John approached from behind, settling his elbows on the window ledge next to Sherlock, their arms brushing the slightest fraction. "I have to lock up, are you coming?"
Sherlock huffed, his breath causing a circle of condensation to form on the cold window, before rapidly shrinking away, diminished by the heat of the room. He nodded.
Reaching for the lanyard around his neck that held his keys, John pulled away, trying not to pay attention to the brushing of fabric as his arm grazed Sherlock's, and his student turned to look at him far more intently than he should. John tries to find a reason to care about what he should and shouldn't be doing anymore, and finds it difficult to locate one.
Sherlock felt the burn in his lungs and sucked the smoke in deeper, feeling lightheaded and swaying backwards against the wall. He held his breath until he felt dizzy and exhaled in a thin cloud of smoke, followed by a breathy sigh of exhaustion. He closed his eyes and wished he were with John.
John rubbed at his eyes with his fists, tempted to slap himself to stay awake, and settled his mug of cold coffee down next to the intimidating stack of ungraded essays and empty lesson plans. He fell backwards onto the sofa, turning his head towards the window being pelted with rain and wind, and before he knew it he was lost in his thoughts of piercing verdigris coloured eyes that haunted his daydreams.
"You missed your appointment with the doctor, where were you?"
"Doing more important things" Sherlock mumbled from underneath the mass of blankets and pillows he had buried his body in. He heard a sigh from his brother and a shutting of the door.
Sherlock closed his eyes again until he heard a scuffing of dress-shoes on wooden floorboards and realised that Mycroft had not left, he had closed the door behind him. He groaned. "Go away Mycroft"
With the sound of an opening of a drawer, Sherlock threw the duvet over his head in frustration, eyes landing on his brother pulling out the chess board from where it was stuffed underneath the dresser. Sherlock watched him for a moment, calculating, and then brought the blankets with him as he dragged himself over to the table where Mycroft was setting up the pieces.
He glared at the white pieces before him as if they had personally offended him, spinning the board around in a fluid movement so the black pieces were on his side.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow "I was trying to be courteous," he reached for a pawn.
"Just because whites make the first move does not guarantee eventual success" Sherlock moved his knight forward in defiance.
"And you were so adamant on playing black why? Let me guess-"
"There is no reason. I don't need courtesy from you" Sherlock spat.
"The colour black is a metaphor for your wounded tortured soul and the evolution of decay you face yourself dwelling in. How poetic." Mycroft smirked and moved his bishop.
Sherlock only glared and avoided Mycroft's threat, moving his knight forward again.
"When are you going to tell me the thing you have so desperately trying to hide these past weeks?" Mycroft waves his hand nonchalantly.
Sherlock smirked in return and made his move.
Mycroft took out Sherlock's knight and placed it on the side.
Sherlock attacked Mycroft's bishop and flung it back into the box. "Your turn"
He moved a rook. "I will find out what you are hiding from me, Sherlock. You know my methods."
Sherlock shook his head in amusement, eyes trained on Mycroft's king as he moved.
"Oh let me guess, you'll have me stalked by brainless and insolent secret service agents for the next few weeks until you have enough information to amuse you."
Mycroft took his pawn.
"Something along those lines" Mycroft squinted at him in vague amusement.
Sherlock beamed back at him. "Check"
Mycroft moved his queen, "Checkmate"
Sherlock frowned at the board in confusion and then flipped the board shut in frustration, pieces flying everywhere.
"You're getting better." Mycroft commented from where he was sat.
"Shut up." Sherlock grouched, reaching for his violin to play something horrendous until Mycroft leaves.
Sherlock headed to Lestrade's classroom for his weekly tutor meeting, barging straight in without knocking as usual, Greg was usually inside stuffing his face with doughnuts or playing apps on his phone and cursing at the screen.
This time, however, he was hunched over his desk, listening intently to John, who sat opposite.
"I-Sherlock?" John asked, and then visibly panics, turning straight back to Lestrade as if the public services teacher could read his thoughts.
Sherlock blinked with amusement and acknowledges him with a nod. "Dr Watson."
"You need to stop barging into my classroom, Sherlock." Greg scolded, standing up behind his desk as John mimicked his actions.
Sherlock ignored him and moved over to his usual seat which he slumped into and watched as John and Lestrade talked quietly, about the rapidly deteriorating condition of a fellow alcohol-addicted teacher, Sherlock deduced.
Greg lead him to the door eventually, with a pat on the back and the promise to 'catch up at lunch', John left with a final glance to Sherlock and closed the door behind him.
"Right," Lestrade clapped once, the sound echoing around the room making Sherlock wince.
"Could you stop being so irritating for five minutes?" Sherlock complained, folding his arms.
"Hello to you too" Greg commented as he sorted through his tutor folders. "How's your personal statement coming along?"
"I haven't started it" Sherlock admitted, knowing it would infuriate his tutor to no end after he had asked Sherlock at least 20 times to at least begin writing it.
Lestrade sighed, "Why am I not surprised?"
"You have unrealistic expectations" his student replied matter-of-factly.
"Of what?" Lestrade asked with a confused look on his face.
"Everything. But mostly me."
"You can't blame me for trying" he replied, sitting down opposite Sherlock at last. "Reports have been good from your teachers lately. Just a couple of disputes with your Chemistry teacher I see?"
"I am too advanced for her." Sherlock raised his chin.
"Nevertheless, you need to be more respectful."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in true two-year-old fashion and swung back on his chair.
"Do you have lessons this afternoon?"
"Free periods," Sherlock drawled "I'll most likely be in Chemistry"
Greg nodded and looked back at Sherlock's last progress statement, written in the previous term. He yanked the paper free and pushed it towards Sherlock once more. "You need to write a new statement, about your targets for each subject."
Sherlock stared back at Lestrade as if he had just asked him to time-travel back in time and change history. Lestrade simply raised his eyebrows, pushing a pen towards his student until the boy frowned down at the paper and began to scribble one-worded statements.
Five minutes later, once Sherlock had explained to him the nature of the smoking complaint made by the member of staff through the head teacher, Lestrade packed up his folders and shoved them into a drawer close to his desk. "Okay, we're about done here. You can go for lunch. See you on Thursday."
Sherlock nodded once and rose, heading straight for the chemistry labs to purposefully avoid the student infested cafeteria.
John was half-way through explaining to a year seven student the importance of manners when a sharp ringing trilled through the air. He startled when recognising the sound as the fire alarm, not recalling a notice about a fire drill in the all staff email that morning.
His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy scent of smoke drifting into the classroom. Shit.
"Alright! Don't panic! Fire procedures! Line up and follow me!" He mentally checked off all the things he was supposed to do in the event of the fire, did a manically fast head-count and ushered the hysterical students into the corridor into slightly warmer air, rushing them all towards the fire exit stairs.
They curled down the stairs and then scattered once they hit the grass outside, "Tutor formation!" John called after the disappearing heads, moving as far away from the building as they could, reaching the swarms of other students gathered by the green wire fence in loose tutor lines.
John spotted Greg Lestrade almost immediately, rushing to where he was ushering his tutor group together. "Greg! Do you know what's going on?"
"Not a clue, half of my tutor is missing-" Greg counted the heads of the sixth-formers in front of him, John stood to the side helplessly, thankful he doesn't have a tutor group of his own.
Another teacher jogged past wearing the reflective vest fire marshals were to wear and Greg snagged him to ask for any information he knew, "They're saying it's on the second floor, by the chemistry department" the man shrugged, rushing off towards the other vested teachers.
A group of four students made their way over to Greg after a few seconds and Lestrade scanned back over his register again, noticing only one more absence.
"John-"
John saw the look of panic on his face and something in his stomach dropped. "What is it?"
"Have you seen Sherlock?" Greg asked, glancing back to the building, darkened smoke beginning to billow out from the windows of the second floor with the occasional crackle, causing frenzy amongst the students.
John spun around desperately trying to locate the head of curly hair, but knowing he wasn't the tallest person there made it impossible, and his heart was panicking in his chest, beating wildly and palms sweating. "I haven't seen him since lunch-time, he told me he'd be in Chemistry all afternoon" John croaked.
Breathe. He has to be here somewhere.
"Me too... Shit." Greg cursed, waving over one of the marshals frantically. "Have any of you seen Sherlock?" he asked the other students in his tutor, though they stood there with blank looks on their face as if they had never even dared to speak to Sherlock let alone know where he was.
John hyperventilates, imagining Sherlock trapped in that building, choking from smoke inhalation and crowded by flames. Fuck. "Greg- I'm... I'm going in" he called, already running towards the building, stripping his coat off and throwing it behind him onto the tarmac.
"No! John, you can't go in there!" Greg panicked, shouting over student's voices, eyes frantically looking back towards the crowds of children still piling out from the building. "John! Just wait for the fire engines!"
John turned back to Greg with a determined look in his eyes just before a roar of heat blasts glass from one of the large windows on the second floor, crackling with a hiss and a wave of heat. John ignored the screams and continued to run.
He heard Greg shouting other teachers to restrain John, to stop him, but continued running, forcing himself straight through the double doors, the heat hitting him immediately as he clambered up the stairs, hearing his name being called by the mass of voices, teachers rushing in after him and being held back for their own safety.
John barely escaped, clambering up taking the steps two at a time as the air began to get thicker and the sweat around his collar started to drip onto the fabric. John was either hallucinating from the fear or his tie was definitely trying to strangle him.
There were a few last people rushing from the building past him down the stairs, being evacuated by adults that John ignored when they screamed at him asking what the hell he was doing.
He forced the doors open, hearing another smash-explosion of glass nearby but resolutely ignoring the horror he knows he was running straight in to. "Sherlock!" he screamed, weaving madly through the empty hallways, coughing and spluttering from the smoke making its way into his lungs.
It's about a minute later after screaming his student's name that he hears a weak croak from below him. "John?"
And there he was. Covered in black soot and hunched over on the floor. Clawing his way along the carpet. Trying desperately to open his eyes from the intensity of the smoke to see if it really was his teacher or if his idiotically hopeful mind was hallucinating his figure.
"Shit, Sherlock-" John grabbed him immediately, hauling his arm around Sherlock's back and dragging him towards the stairs. "Come on,"
They were met at the mid-point of the stairs by three firemen dressed in huge gear, masks strapped on tightly and rushing straight towards them. They were separated as one large fire-fighter practically lifted John over his shoulder and two others lifted Sherlock between them, the teen's eyes were squeezed shut and covered in blackness of dirt and dust.
More quickly than John could remember, they were met by the light of the sky, the freshness of the wind forcing itself into their lungs, causing Sherlock to begin a violent coughing fit, both of them being moved straight over to the ambulance on site.
John vaguely noticed that most of the students that had been lined up had been evacuated to the field further away, cordoned off by tape and firemen surrounding the engines with three supporting ambulances. "Sherlock? I- Are you- Is he okay?" John questioned earnestly, craning his neck around to see Sherlock's legs dangling from the back of the other ambulance, still coughing everywhere.
The member of ambulance staff braced John on the shoulders, settling him with a firm squeeze, ushering him to sit down, pulling out meters and masks immediately. "Don't worry, he has paramedics with him too. What is your name?"
"John", he croaked, launching into another coughing fit at the persistent itching and dryness in his throat.
They were attaching a breath monitor to John's face just as he heard a retching from beside him, and leaned over to see Sherlock throwing up violently over the concrete floor. He went to pull the mask down from his face, ready to stand and help him "Sherlock-"
"No, keep seated please, we can't afford you getting disorientated and passing out." his paramedic pushed him down again, and John eyed the lines of equipment in clear trays and boxes along the wall of the ambulance, distracting himself with the sight of syringes and valves stuffed into transparent packaging.
Sherlock had quietened now, they had laid him down on the stretcher and he was being instructed to breathe deeply into the gas and air machine, tracking his pulse simultaneously. John imagined the voice in Sherlock's head about how irritating these green-coated people were being, and barely held back a chuckle.
"John!" he heard a nearby voice, and turned to register Greg running towards the vehicle. "Are you okay? You fucking idiot- why did you do that for?" he went to punch John in the shoulder and hesitated halfway from the fragile looking state of his face. Dark circles surrounded his bloodshot eyes, the hint of soot dusting his wrinkled clothes and his face, Greg stared at him with pity whilst John wrestled with his uncomfortably tight top shirt button.
"And you-" Greg turned to the ambulance opposite, spotting Sherlock with his legs dangling, just out of John's viewpoint. "Why weren't you out as soon as the fire alarm sounded?" he cried, gesticulating in frustration.
That's when John finally hears his voice, deep and barren of emotion, just on the side of croaky which no doubt irritated the unbreakable Sherlock Holmes. "Fire alarms are idiotic, I thought it was another one of those ridiculous drills. Plus, I was busy thinking."
Greg's eyes lit up with unquestionable anger, just about to lapse into a well-deserved lecture when a tall man appeared quite literally from nowhere.
He was dressed in a full piece suit, jet black and pin-striped with a crimson red tie Windsor-knotted at the stiff wing-tip collar. With an air of familiarity and confidence, the man marched straight over to Sherlock, grasping tightly a hawk-ended umbrella and reaching straight for Sherlock's face. John felt immediately intimidated by his presence.
Sherlock scowled as Mycroft took his face in one hand, gripping him by his chin and tilting his head to check for signs of trauma with a direct look into his eyes. After a moment he let go, his fingers hovering.
"I'm fine" Sherlock insisted with irritation. "Would you tell them to stop putting this blanket on me?!" he ripped the orange object from his shoulders once more and tossed it to the floor with defiance.
"Sort out your shirt" the man ordered in an uninterested tone, wiping at the material loosely hanging from Sherlock's shoulders, and John restrained the urge to pounce forward, wondering who the hell this man was. When studying his features closely, the gingery-brunette hair and sharp blue eyes held certain similarities to Sherlock, but this man looked entirely too young to be his father, or his uncle, and besides, Sherlock had told John that his parents were deceased.
Greg interrupted before John could ask, however, stepping forward into the shadow of the ambulance. "Excuse me, I don't believe we've been introduced, I'm-"
"Gregory Lestrade, I presume?" He turned to face the teacher, a slight squint to his snake-like eyes and offered a long outstretched hand.
John watched with confusion as Greg visibly swallowed, looking entirely flustered as he gripped the man's hand. "Yes, yes- And you are?"
"Mycroft Holmes" they shook hands. "Are you the teacher that retrieved my brother from the fire? I believe I ought to express my utmost gratitude-"
"Oh, no, I- That wasn't me, I'm Sherlock's tutor. Dr John Watson here saved him from the fire" Greg gestured directly over to John who finally jumped down from the van, paramedics be damned.
He self-consciously straightened his spine and pushed his shoulders back, walking briskly forward to the much taller man whose intense gaze was now fixed directly on him. John finally caught sight of Sherlock as he rounded the ambulance, exchanging a glance with him and ignoring his rapidly increasing heart-rate.
"Doctor John Watson," Mycroft tested the name on his tongue for a moment, rapidly flicking his eyes over John's approaching frame, deducing the man's emotions from the expressions on his face.
"Pleased to meet you" John reached out a hand towards him, firmly shaking Mycroft's cold hand and then returning to his normal stance.
"I believe I owe you my thanks, for assisting Sherlock from the fire."
John blinked, keeping his eyes straight ahead and away from his student. "I'm just glad nobody was seriously hurt." he attempted to sound as sincere and professional as he could, feeling even more daunted by the older Holmes' looming stance and blank facial expression.
Mycroft rapidly attached the data in his head; from the lingering glances and uneasiness, Sherlock's increase of breath behind him when he shook Dr Watson's hand, from the fathomable electrical charge in the air between the two silent men, it was safe to determine that this is what Sherlock had been hiding. And with one look back to Sherlock, he knew that he was right.
Sherlock sprung up. "Can we all stop lurking around like lacklustre animals and get out of here." he snapped, reaching for his discarded coat that lay abandoned on the ambulance step, still reeking of smoke. With the final affirmation from paramedics that they were acceptably medically relieved, Sherlock stormed off ahead, wrapped in his coat, collar up and dress-shoes crunching the broken glass particles under his feet.
Whilst Mycroft had excused himself as politely as possible to approach the head-teacher, Greg and John were left in silent apprehension, "Well, that was interesting," John said at last. "I felt like he was trying to read my thoughts or something."
"Seeing that he's Sherlock's brother, he probably was" Greg frowned, not taking his eyes from the tall man with the black umbrella despite the clear skies. "Oh here's your coat, by the way."
"Ta" John took it from him, slipping it on immediately and pulling the collar closed around his face to force out the biting cold.
Greg made his excuses about speaking to the head and left, whilst John focused on the direction Sherlock was heading, crossing the small field and rounding the corner to the bricked bike sheds away from view.
Rubbing his hands together to keep the rapidly dissipating warmth in, he aimed to look casual as he walked in the same general direction Sherlock had, if only to check up on his wellbeing.
"Are you seriously smoking right now, Sherlock? Seriously?" John scolded as soon as he rounded the corner, raising his voice at the man with the lighter in his hand.
"I...Yes. Sorry-" Sherlock grimaced down at himself and retracted his thumb from the lighter pedal, stuffing the un-used cigarette back into the sodden cardboard carton crinkled in his inside coat pocket.
John slid his hands into his pockets, his exhale turning into a mist of fog from the freezing winter air. He raised his eyebrows, "Sherlock Holmes saying sorry, that's a first." He scuffed his shoe at the floor, refusing eye contact which convinced Sherlock of his previous suspicion, he was angry with him.
"Well. You did save my life, I suppose that grants some sort of an apology" Sherlock was attempting to be sincere, but still somehow managed to make John huff out a laugh, running his calloused hands over his worn-looking face.
"Jesus, Sherlock" he shook his head. "What were you thinking? There are fire alarms for a reason, you know, what if I hadn't gone in after you? What if someone had managed to stop me?"
"You know my methods, John." he grinned unexpectedly. "I am known to be indestructible."
John bit out a bitter laugh, completely done with anything Sherlock had to say. He pushed off from the wall and stormed off in the direction of the school.
"Wait! John-" Sherlock grabbed his arm, hauling him back into the secluded bricked corner, not letting go even after John was stood staring straight back at him. "I-"
John looked down at Sherlock's leather gloved hands, fiddling with the thick material of John's coat sleeve, which had been returned to him by Greg so he didn't freeze to death.
"I am thankful", his icy sharp eyes flicked upwards, meeting John's gaze for a moment, a fleeting chance of softness and invitation before the connection was lost and Sherlock dropped his sight to the ground once more.
Though the air was cold the warm breath between them mingled and warmed John's face, aware of his mouth parting slightly at a loss of what to say. He found his eyes inexplicably drawn to Sherlock's perfectly sculpted cupid-bow lips.
"Just try to be more careful, okay?" John sighed, pulling away from the close proximity they had just shared, suddenly nervous that it had been witnessed.
The silence between them stretched on persistently, the crunch of gravel under their feet scraping minutely as their feet shuffled about.
"Are you angry with me?" the young Holmes stared directly at the ground.
"I was, but in my experience- anger never seems to last long with you" John sighed, straightening his stance and flexing his hands at his sides. Sherlock looked up at him.
"Should I take that as a compliment?"
"Take it however you like, I'm so exhausted right now I have no idea what I'm even saying, let alone what I mean by the things I say."
Clearing his throat, Sherlock uncurled from his slouch against the wall. "I believe students and teachers have been excused from school until further notice. You should go home."
While John's brain was screaming at him for sleep, his body swayed unintentionally more towards Sherlock's moving figure. "You're going home too I hope? You can't stay here-"
"I'm sure Mycroft will insist on my return tonight" Sherlock rolled his eyes, his curls falling lopsided by the determined breeze.
The two began to walk back to the general gathering of vehicles and scattered people, taped off by police. Sherlock ducked underneath and lifted the dividing tape up for John to walk under.
Before they realise how long they had stood in comfortable silence, a quick glance to the left provided the view of an expressionless Mycroft, stood aside with his arm settled on the open door of a sleek black Mercedes with an unspoken demand that Sherlock say his goodbyes and follow him home.
Sherlock glared at him for a moment, and then reluctantly turned back to John, knowing that Mycroft was watching their every move. John's wide eyes flickered up to his with some hesitation, neither addressing the odd atmosphere that had changed and now hung about the air between them.
"See you then" John nodded, pursing his lips and measuring the reasonable amount of distance between their bodies.
The irritating flashes of LED blue and red lights from the sirens of police and ambulances flashed over Sherlock's pale and stoic features, the sky beginning to darken with the prelude of nightfall. He departed with a silence about him that sends a shiver down John's spine.
Surrounded by the dissipating warmth of the air, Doctor John Watson forced himself not to watch as the young man he had become so enraptured by climbed into a car sheathed in shadows.