With Stamford's help, John found his way to his morning classes. They seemed to have the same schedule. John suspected the school had done that on purpose, seeing that he and Stamford were roommates. Therefore, John was always on time and already had a friend.

Around noon, they made their way to lunch, where John hoped to find the food edible. Considering the cost of attendance at Monroe, he expected nothing less.

The boys each grabbed a tray of spaghetti with meatballs, salad on the side. Stamford grabbed dessert and several dinner rolls, and they sat at a creaky, wooden table, polished by the hands, trays, and sweat of so many other boys before them.

"So what do you think?" Stamford stuffed bread in his mouth.

John pushed the pasta around. "Oh, fine, fine. Teachers seem all right. Thanks for not letting me get lost."

"No problem."

A few other boys moved in to sit around them, all similar to Stamford in looks: soft in the middle, glasses, pale skin that had never seen sun. John knew these were not his sort, but they were friendly.

At his old school, John had been king of the jocks. He was built for rugby, football, lacrosse ... anything that involved physical contact and quick reflexes. He was broad in the shoulders and muscular. He was tan from a summer of swimming. He was, easily, quite handsome. Perhaps these kind, nerdy gents saw him as a shift in their school reputation, which was why they offered him hesitant smiles and pudding.

Without having realized it, John Watson had become a cool kid.

The sound of loud laughter made John look away from his plate and toward another table, down the way. He recognized them immediately: his sort, the athletic boys who wore their uniforms in a rebellious mess: white button-downs untucked, ties crooked, navy blue trousers barely pressed. Yes, these were his people, handsome every one.

John felt his stomach quiver with lust and joy.

Laughter increased as one of the boys stood up suddenly with a book in hand and held it high above his head.

"It's Seb again," Stamford announced. "Bothering Sherlock."

Seb was taller than John by probably about six inches. He was wide in the shoulders with short, brown hair; a square jaw; and a big, toothy grin. He continued waving the book over his head until another boy stood from the table, but this boy didn't seem to fit with the jock consortium.

He was shorter than Seb and probably half his weight. All John could see was the back of his head, covered in wild, shaggy bits of thick, black curl. The boy used a long, lanky arm to reach for the book in Seb's hand, but Seb kept it out of his reach, laughing until the entire cafeteria watched.

"If you want rugby, Seb's the team captain," Stamford said with a downturn of his lips.

"He's a right ass," another boy said. "Won't leave Sherlock alone."

"Sherlock's on the track team," Stamford continued, "if you like running." He pushed a meatball nervously around his plate, obviously worried John was about to leave the table and abandon him forever.

"Okay, thanks." John made no move to rise, which seemed to relax the boys around him.

His eyes trailed back to what was now a public spectacle as Seb held Sherlock off with one, strong hand and kept his book in the air with the other. Finally, the boy Sherlock said something, and Seb's laugh turned to a snake's smile. He ceased the ruckus by handing Sherlock's book back. Then, with everyone again consumed by food and first-day jitters, John watched as Seb and Sherlock left the cafeteria through a door in the back. From the dark-haired boy, he saw nothing but that wild hair and a flash of pale cheekbone.

John had a bad feeling. "Where are the …" He stood up. "Where's the loo?"

Stamford nodded in the direction of Seb and Sherlock's exit, which gave John the perfect excuse to follow.

He pushed through the door quietly and did his best to keep his fancy, new shoes from making a click. Didn't take long for him to hear a familiar noise: that of lips sucking flesh.

John peered around the corner, and in the dim, hallway light, found Seb snogging Sherlock senseless. The bigger, stronger boy had Sherlock smashed with his back against the wall. Seb's large hands were fully immersed in Sherlock's black hair, and he appeared to be trying to eat right through Sherlock's mouth to the back of his skull.

John watched one of Sherlock's long, pale hands try to shove Seb back a bit, but Seb latched onto Sherlock's wrist and pinned his hand against the wall.

"Seb," Sherlock breathed, not in a good way.

Seb's hungry mouth moved to Sherlock's neck until the boy hissed in painful protest. Then, Seb's hand let go of Sherlock's wrist long enough to wind its way down the front of Sherlock's shirt, to the waist of his trousers, and then, even lower, until he pressed his palm roughly between Sherlock's legs.

"Don't," Sherlock said, his deep voice that of a grown man.

"Come on," Seb purred against his ear. "Let's go to my room and finally get rid of your stupid virginity."

"Get off," Sherlock growled.

Seb seemed to greatly enjoy the other's boy's protests, because he used his large body to pin Sherlock to the wall until he was literally trapped in Seb's unwelcome embrace, which was when John took a step forward and said, firmly, "Think you'd better back off, mate."

Both Seb and Sherlock looked shocked by his presence, but at least Seb took a rushed step backwards, leaving Sherlock frozen in place.

Seb took an aggressive lunge toward John and stopped inches from his face. "You never saw this," he spat and quickly stomped away.

Sherlock was out of breath. While he rearranged his uniform, John really saw the boy for the first time. The contradiction of black hair and bright blue eyes made for a dashingly attractive picture, as did the high cheekbones, pale skin, and illicitly full, pink lips, still wet from Seb's attack. John noticed Sherlock must have been younger, a sophomore or freshman even. John doubted the boy had yet to use a razor, but it was no wonder he ran track, with those long legs.

Sherlock sighed. "Aren't you going to call me names? Puff? Faggot?"

John was so utterly shocked by the deep, sensuous timbre of the boy's voice, he didn't respond.

"Well?"

"Oh." John chuckled. "Only if it's in jest since I'm a puff faggot, too." He clasped his hands behind him and tried to look kind.

Sherlock appraised John, and John felt like a dissected frog beneath a microscope. Then, without a word of thanks, Sherlock swept past, leaving nothing but the scent of smoke and bar soap and an embarrassingly hard John Watson.