Hello everyone! So sorry this took so long to upload, my laptop got a virus and I had to send it away to get fixed so boo! Well anyway Hugh is safe and well and running smoothly (yes I have named my laptop, what of it? :p) Anyway I hope this is worth the wait. Thanks for Marie for being a lovely beta and making it look like I have a vague grasp of the English language. Leave me a review and let me know what you think. xxxxxx


Hands On Education.

Chapter Three.

Chemistry.

He didn't move. He couldn't move. It was as if he was glued to his bedroom carpet. His body simply gave up as soon as he attempted to shift limbs that felt heavy and made of stone. Sherlock lay on the floor covered in his own blood and humiliation. He lay perfectly still, the occasional blink the only indication that he was even alive, though he felt entirely dead inside. Putting two fingers on his wrist he counted his pulse, the faint little beating of his heart that refused to give out. He waited till it was dark outside and the house had been eerily quiet for more than an hour before he picked himself up and then collapsed onto his bed.

Screwing up his eyes until his entire world was dark, he found himself consumed by the infinite space inside his mind. There was a faded poster in one of the classrooms telling them that if they were being bullied to tell someone, but what do you do if your own father is the bully? He wished it was just Moriarty that struck him, at least then he could close the door of his home and escape it all. A part of him reveled in facing everything alone, as if a reliance on others was a sign of weakness. He was fighting a private war that only he knew about, and he had become spectacularly good at covering it up by making sure to hide the bruises he was given, staying silent, keeping everyone at arm's length in case he slipped up. Eventually his father would drink himself into an early grave, and he would be free, but not yet. He drifted into a dreamless sleep.


Again, Sherlock left earlier then was necessary on Monday morning. After what had happened last week with his bike tyres, he decided to walk to school. He smoked a cigarette on the way and took the long way round through the school's car park. He was heading to the familiar spot on the field when a car pulled up next to him.

'Hey, Sherlock,' he was greeted by the beaming face of his Biology teacher, Mr. Watson. 'You're here early.' He made a show of checking his watch.

Sherlock didn't respond to that remark, instead just replying, 'Hello, sir.'

'Goodness, what happened to you?' he gestured towards Sherlock's black eye.

Sherlock shrugged slightly. 'Fell off my bike,' he lied.

Mr Watson stared at him for a few moments, not entirely sure whether or not to believe him, but he decided to drop the subject… for now.

'Well, you might as well make yourself useful. I need some help carrying some things up to my room, and I'll make it worth your while.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Worth my while?' he thought doubtfully. He was fairly sure John didn't have anything he wanted.

'Yeah. You help me, and not only will you get out of morning registration, but I won't tell anyone about that cigarette.' He nodded to Sherlock's hand.

Reluctantly, he helped Mr Watson, carrying up a plastic skeleton up to his classroom. John carried some rolled-up posters and a box. In his room, he handed Sherlock some drawing pins, and they set about putting up the posters on the walls. Most were pictures and diagrams of parts of the human body and another one on digestion, and one the eye, all in lurid bright colours and covered in arrows and bold lettering. He stuck the skeleton next to the whiteboard.

'Check this out.' John gestured to the box, then, taking off the lid, he brought out a skull.

'Is that real?' Sherlock asked.

Mr Watson rolled his eyes. 'Of course it's real.' He handed it to Sherlock for a closer look.

Sherlock held it very carefully, feeling the edges of the eye sockets.

'Had it since uni,' Mr Watson told him.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the skull as he was totally captivated. Turning the skull gently in his hands, he inspected all sides carefully. 'Female. The brow ridges are not very wide and the features are quite delicate. Judging by the tooth wear and how the cranial ridges have fused, late twenties, I reckon. It's beautiful,' he finished.

Mr Watson laughed again, astounded at Sherlock's skill. 'Well, if you like it so much, it's yours.'

Sherlock was taken aback. 'Mine? Really?'

'Yeah. Sarah's been on at me for years to get rid of it; looks like I've found it a nice home.'

The school day was utter hell, as usual. He was bored as soon as lessons began and he was away from John. The only thing he had to look forward to was Biology later that day. The box with the skull in it was still on his desk, and John had promised he could collect it as soon as the school bell rang. He could not believe he would soon be in possession of it. No one had ever given him something before… well, not something that he actually wanted. The day passed at a snail-like pace, the only highlight coming when he caught sight of John in the corridors or walking towards the teachers' lounge at break.

He watched as the other students still fawned over Mr Watson and felt a feeling of superiority. They may follow the teacher about, write his name on their books, but John was giving him the skull. Him, not them. He would even say he felt smug.

Biology finally came, and Sherlock practically ran to the classroom. He was the first to arrive, and Mr Watson gave him his usual welcoming smile.

'Have you changed your mind about the skull?' Sherlock wheezed.

'Nope, of course not. See me after class and it's yours.'

He nodded and went to his seat, watching the room fill up with his classmates.

For the entire time Sherlock had been at St Bart's he had never answered a question a teacher asked. He knew all the answers, of course, but kept silent. Now, in John Watson's room, he was putting his hand up so many times he lost count. He was desperate to please John. He wanted to prove how clever he was and that he deserved the skull. In a way, he wanted to impress John, to make John notice him, not the cretins that were his classmates. Everyone fought over Mr. Watson's attention, so, to deal with the competition, he had to use his strength. Something he had that they didn't, and that was his brainpower. And he was damn good at Biology.

Mr Watson handed back the tests they had done the previous week. As he had expected, Sherlock got full marks. What he did not expect was the comment that was scrawled under his mark.

Biology teacher in your former life Sherlock?

He pouted, was he being made fun of? He thought answering all the questions correctly would please John? Wait, maybe Mr Watson was making a joke. He made a lot of jokes. Was he trying to have a joke with him? No other teacher had ever tried humour with him.

The bell rang, and Sherlock found himself the proud owner of an adult female skull. As soon as he got home, he took it out of the box and spent the evening examining it carefully. Noting the shape of it, colour, texture, weight, everything. Mr Watson was right, it was real, so very, very real. And it was his. All his.


John tickled Poppy behind the ears, the dog perched half on the sofa and half on his lap. He sipped on a glass of red that Sarah had given him, and he was watching an old repeat of Top Gear. He could hear Sarah making dinner in the kitchen. It smelt good, whatever it was. Some kind of fancy risotto recipe she was trying out, he thought. The doorbell rang.

'I'll get it.' Sarah emerged, full of life, from the kitchen, an apron tied round her waist. John turned the T.V. off and shoved Poppy off his lap, the dog whining in annoyance.

'Mum, Dad,' she greeted the party with a hug and a kiss as they came inside. John too went up to greet them but with much less enthusiasm than his wife. His father-in-law handed him a bottle of wine as a contribution to the evening, which he was eternally grateful for.

'So how are you getting on? I see you're all unpacked.' Sarah's mum glanced round their new home clearly impressed with what she saw. She and her daughter shared similar tastes. Not that that mattered, they could have lived in a cardboard box and the old woman would've still raved about how great it was to have them close by and away from that big, bad city.

'Fine, it's all fine,' John lied. Sarah may have taken to this place like a duck to water, but he had not.

'Let's eat shall we.' He showed them to the dining room where the cutlery had already been laid out. Wine was poured, and risotto was served. It wasn't half bad, and John wondered when Sarah had turned into such a domestic goddess. In London they used to live on takeaways and whatever restaurant they fancied. John missed that. He found himself missing a lot of things. John didn't speak much as the three chatted; he found he had nothing to say to any of them. He simply nodded, drank his wine, and ate.

'So, you know Bakerford is a perfect place to start raising children?'

'Mum,' Sarah pretended to scold, but there was no denying the smile that crept onto her face.

'Well, we're not getting any younger and neither are you two,' Sarah's mother continued.

'What my wife is trying to say,' Sarah's dad reached over and threaded his fingers through his wife's hand, 'is to hurry up and give us grandkids.'

Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except John, who gave a half-hearted smile and lowered his head. He dropped his gaze to the half-eaten risotto and found that he had suddenly lost his appetite.

'Are you alright, John? You're awfully quiet this evening,' Sarah's mother remarked.

John opened his mouth to offer some sort of excuse when Sarah interrupted.

'Oh don't mind him, he's in mourning.'

'Mourning?' her mother asked.

'Yes, I finally managed to convince him to get rid of that skull he has. ' Sarah sounded chuffed, as if forcing her husband to get rid of the skull was something to be proud of, a noble achievement worthy of boasting about to her parents like she would've about success on an exam.

John wanted to leave. He loved that skull, and even though he knew Sherlock would take very good care of it and it would be better off in his care then in the classroom where it could easily be broken or stolen, it was hard not to shake the idea that he had given a part of himself away. Then he kicked himself for being so emotional over a skull.

He remembered how Sherlock's entire face had lit up as he was given the skull. He had never seen an expression quite like it. He wasn't sure why all the teachers distrusted, even feared, the young man. John really enjoyed teaching him. He had given Sherlock the skull because he knew all Sherlock needed was someone to be nice to him. The young man had some strange quirks, but ever since John had heard his name being spoken in the teachers' lounge, he had felt a strange magnetism to Sherlock. They were both outsiders. John liked that Sherlock was too clever for his own good. There was something about him that made John want to be around him.

Unaware of her husband's misery, Sarah declared the evening a success. As soon as her parents left, she flung her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. She then lowered her head slightly before nibbling on his neck.

'What do you say we try for a baby tonight?' she whispered in his ear then slid a delicate hand down to the waistband of his boxers. Not even the offer of sex could break him out of the terrible mood he was in.

'Not tonight.' When he pushed her away gently, she looked concerned.

'What's wrong, John?'

'Nothing's wrong. I just don't feel like it.'

Her confusion was written all over her face. 'But you've been almost tearing at my clothes all week! Is this about kids? Don't listen to my parents. We have all the time in the world. If you don't want to try for a baby, we still have those condoms in the bathroom.'

He was starting to get angry now and couldn't keep it out of his voice. 'For fuck's sake, Sarah, I don't want to have sex, okay?' he hissed then grabbed his jacket.

'Where are you going?'

'I need some air,' he replied, slamming the front door behind him as he left. He wandered about for as long as he could, knowing Sarah would stay up until he returned so they could talk about the argument they had just had. If there was one thing John didn't want to do, it was talk. He just wanted to be left alone.

Finding a bench and sitting down, he wondered what he should do. He was deeply unhappy here in Bakerford. He was on the verge of begging Sarah to move back to London. He contemplated asking for a divorce. He loved Sarah, but not in the way he once did. He remembered his life before marriage. When he'd been single, he'd enjoyed himself with both men and women. But this was about more than just his marriage, he knew something was wrong with his life, something was missing. Even before he left London, he knew something just was not right. He just could not figure out what it was, and he'd had plenty of friends to distract him. Now he could no longer ignore the gaping hole in himself. He seemed to have everything, a nice house, a good job, a loving wife. So why was he so bloody miserable? His mind still racing, he admitted defeat and headed home. Ready to face the barrage of questions from Sarah, he had already settled on the excuse of stress at work. He could talk to Sarah about anything, but not this. No one could know he was completely dead behind the eyes.


Sherlock stared at himself in the bathroom mirror again, the new bruises from his father mixing into the old ones from Moriarty's gang. His body was a patchwork of dark purple and yellow. He could be quite vain sometimes, taking pride in the way he looked, but right now that was all out of the window. How could you care how you looked when your father gives you a black eye?

He heard the faint sound of the T.V. set from downstairs and the faint noise of a crowd. His father was probably watching the football. He wondered if the man was drinking again, but he didn't want to know. All he wanted to do was run and hide away from this nightmare that he soon hoped to wake up from. He hated that he was so wrapped up in his own self pity, preferring not to let himself feel anything, but days like this were unavoidable when he bore the reminders of his father's attacks so clearly on his body.

He slipped quietly back into his own room and curled up on the bed. He wanted to get out of the house. His limbs ached, and he wanted to stay lying down, but the sounds downstairs reminded him of the constant threat. His father's mood swings meant that, no matter how Sherlock felt, the outside world pulled at him like a magnet.

His mobile rang as Mycroft's name lit up the screen, but he ignored it. He had no desire to speak to him, he had no desire to speak to anyone. However, the missed call from Mycroft reminded him that he had some money, and suddenly the world seemed all the brighter. With money in his pocket, there were things he could do, places he could visit. There was a new German film out today which he wanted to see. He knew the local art house cinema was playing it because he had seen an advert for it in the paper. It was a long way, but he could do with the walk, the fresh air would do him good. So, he took out the envelope of money from Mycroft, shoved some notes into his pocket followed by his house key and a packet of cigarettes, and grabbed his jacket. Years of practice meant slipping out of the house undetected was easy.

Bakerford Picture House was a lovely, red-bricked, Victorian building. It had opened in the early years of the Twentieth Century. Sherlock found the new multiplexes so soulless and uninviting, but this theatre had such charm. Bright lights lit up the entrance despite being early evening, and film posters were everywhere. The cinema was typically busy, full to the brim with the Saturday evening crowd. He gave a small sigh at the length of the queue, hoping he would still get a seat, when he heard a voice behind him.

'Fancy meeting you here.'

'Mr Watson,' he stammered, still not sure of the right way to behave when meeting his teachers outside of school. Honestly, was there anywhere in this town he could go without bumping into his Biology teacher? He saw an arm try to slip round his teacher's waist, but John did not respond to his wife's touch. She gave him a warm smile, and he remembered their brief meeting. No dog this time.

'This is Sherlock Holmes, one of my pupils,' John said by way of an introduction.

'We've met. Bumped into him while I was walking Poppy. Hello, Sherlock. Goodness, what happened to you?' She squinted her eyes and peered at the large, black bruise that had formed under Sherlock's eye.

'Fell off my bike,' Sherlock mumbled.

She nodded her head, and her face gave out an expression of sympathy. Sherlock felt relief that she believed him and his dark secret was still intact.

'Are you seeing the new film?' Mr Watson asked, eager to change the subject. Sarah may not have noticed the nerve she had struck, but he had. He could tell Sherlock was lying, but he didn't want to pry… not in public anyway.

Sherlock nodded again.

'You should join us!' Sarah exclaimed as both the men shuffled uncomfortably.

'Okay then.' John found his politeness getting the better of him. 'I'll get the tickets.'

Sherlock tried to hand John a worn ten pound note, but, ever the gentlemen, John refused. While he was gone Sarah asked him about school.

'How is John getting on?'

'Fine. All the girls fancy him,' he replied then winced, guessing this was not the best thing to say to his teacher's wife. Luckily, Sarah just laughed.

'He's kept that quiet, though I'm not surprised. He is terrible at knowing when women like him. When we first met, I practically had to kiss him to let him know I liked him.'

Sherlock blushed, not really wanting to know such personal details about his teacher. Fortunately, Mr Watson arrived back with the tickets, a small bag of popcorn, and a coke which he handed to Sherlock.

'You look like you need it. A strong gust of wind, and you will float away,' John said.

Sherlock went bright red and wondered how often he would do this in front of his Biology teacher. He wanted to live up to his reputation with Mr Watson as being cold and mysterious, not constantly turning the colour of a tomato. He wasn't sure if any of the regular teachers would buy popcorn and watch films with their students, but, then again, he wasn't a regular student. And John was certainly not a regular teacher.

'Don't listen to him, Sherlock,' Sarah scolded. 'He is just jealous now he has a podge.'

Sherlock felt the sudden need to interrupt Sarah and tell her that John was perfect just the way he was, but he kept quiet.

'Come on, the film is about to start.'

Sherlock followed the couple into the cinema. They found some seats near the back and made themselves comfortable, John taking a seat in between Sarah and Sherlock. John leaned an arm onto the arm rest that Sherlock's hand occupied, the brushing of skin caused them both to jump and pull away quickly. He apologized, and the lights in the room faded.

It was only when the room went completely dark and the trailers began to roll that Sherlock realised just how closely he was sitting next to his teacher. The strands of his cable knit, oatmeal coloured jumper lightly tickled his arm. Sherlock found his body leaning into this most subtle of touches. He tried to lose himself in the film, but he could not relax, the close proximity of his teacher making his heart feel like it could beat out of his chest. His palms felt hot and sweaty even though he was sitting in just a shirt and the cinema was air conditioned. He had never felt so awkward in his entire life, but when John got up to go to the loo, he felt the loss in the seat next to him immediately. He constantly looked at the door waiting for his return.

The film carried on playing over the next few hours, but Sherlock felt just as consumed by the nervous energy that he'd had at the start. When the film finished and the credits rolled, Sherlock found one part of himself thanking god it was over and another wanting to stay in the seat with John beside him.

It was pouring with rain when they stepped outside. Sherlock zipped up his coat and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to shield himself as best he could from the downpour.

'How are you getting home?'

'Walking,' he replied to Sarah's question.

'Nonsense, John and I will give you lift. Come on, our car is this way.'

Again, two sides of himself wrestled within his head. He felt utterly awkward and embarrassed and wanted, raining or not, to run very, very quickly very, very far away. But another part of him wanted to get in that car just to squeeze out some more time with his teacher. He had no clue what the hell was wrong with him.

John drove. Sherlock sat behind him in the back seat staring out of the window and giving them directions back to his house. Sarah insisted on going over every scene in the film, giving her opinions as if she were a critic on the radio.

'What did you think, Sherlock?'

'I was good. I liked it,' Sherlock mumbled in reply. 'The lead actress was pretty good. What's her name?'

'Err, Penelope something. I'm not sure,' John interrupted.

'Surprised you don't know, darling. You were practically licking the screen whenever she was on.' Sarah laughed, but Sherlock detected an undercurrent of bitterness directed at John.

'I don't care. She was fit,' John replied.

There was an awkward silence, then a song came on the radio that caused John to leap in excitement and immediately turn the volume up.

'Oh, I love this song. God, I haven't heard it in years!'

Sherlock didn't recognise the music, he just smiled as he watched John begin to sing along then start to tap out the beat on the steering wheel.

'I apologise for my husband, Sherlock,' Sarah laughed.

Despite himself, Sherlock found himself laughing too, as if John singing along to some song on the radio was the funniest thing in the entire world. The lights went green, and they pulled away. Sherlock wondered if this was what it was like having friends then immediately dispelled this thought. He didn't do friends.

Too soon, they pulled up outside his house. Sherlock thanked them for the lift home then bounded up to the garden path through the rain. He heard the car pull away as he opened his front door. Walking into the hallway he took off his shoes and hung his coat up on the rack. He walked into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle before grabbing his mug out of the sink and rooting round for a tea bag.

'Where have you been?' his father snapped as he came into the kitchen. He had obviously heard the car pull up outside the house.

Immediately, Sherlock felt sick with worry. "Please, not again. Please," he thought, seeing the beer can in his father's hand.

'Out,' he stated simply. 'Cinema.'

'Cinema? Since when did you get the money to go to the pictures?'

'Friend paid.' He didn't want to tell his father about the money Mycroft had sent. Besides it was half true; Mr Watson had paid for his ticket.

His father began to laugh, a bitter humourless laugh. 'Friend? Since when do you have friends?'

'They've just moved here.' Sherlock felt uncomfortable under his father's scrutiny.

'Liar, tell me the truth, ' his father hissed.

'I just did,' he snapped back. He wanted to leave, to get away as quickly as he could, so he headed for the stairs.

'Don't walk away while I'm speaking to you,' his father hissed at him again, but Sherlock ignored him, heading to his bedroom.

Lying on his bed, he held the skull up to his face again and stared into the empty eye sockets. He was confused. Mr Watson had given him a skull as a gift. He had also paid for his cinema ticket and given him a lift home. He had written a joke on his test paper, for god's sake! Why was he being so nice to him? No one was nice to him. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand why he blushed whenever Mr Watson spoke to him, why he had butterflies in his stomach whenever he was close, or why he wanted to call him 'John' and have it be him that got to put his arm round his waist when they went to the cinema. Did he fancy Mr Watson? Everyone else in the school did, but he wasn't like everyone else! They were dull, boring, and uninteresting. He didn't want to be like them. He would be giggling like a schoolgirl and writing his name in love hearts over his exercise books next. He couldn't fancy Mr Watson.

He imagined Mr Watson kissing him like the characters did in the film he had just seen, and, to his horror, he felt himself tingle slightly. Not in a bad way at all, but in a way that made him feel lightheaded, as if he were made of air. Thinking of his Biology teacher made him feel...strange, very strange indeed. A way he had never felt before in his entire life. He wanted nothing more than to stretch out and feel what Mr Watson's skin felt like underneath his fingertips, but at the same time, he felt so awkward around him, as if something were clouding up his brain. He also felt something else, something strange and new. His jeans felt impossibly tight. He reached down a hand and realised that his cock had grown hard. Not just hard, but rock solid. This was quite unusual. Sure, he woke up in the mornings with erections, but they always disappeared quickly. He had never gotten one thinking about someone else before. This was very odd indeed. He would need to investigate this further. He wondered if there was anything in the library about these things. He would look tomorrow. This recent turn of events was most unexpected.