"What's going on everybody, my name is John Watson, and this," He paused for effect, smirking directly at the camera, "is what's on my face." With a soft laugh and a shake of his head, he swallowed thickly and began. "Update on my life? Well. Rugby is a pain in the arse, like always. Remember how in the early days of public schooling you were told," He put on a fake, uppity accent, "not to run in the halls, not to touch other students, and, most importantly, not to use foul language?"
John scoffed and spun in his chair, lifting his hands up towards the ceiling and shrugging his shoulders, "Well, coaches? They don't give two blinking fucks."
With a rather dark grin, he pointed at the camera lens and arched a brow, "You know what they call our rugby coach behind his back?"
John let out a snort, "Coach the Roach. Fitting, ay?" He leaned back and lifted his hands, "For those of you who don't know 'im, it's pretty darn accurate. He smells bad, he give you this weird squinty-eyed face when you bugger something up, and," John snapped for emphasis, "He scurries around like he owns a bloody teleportation device or something. The man has a fucking TARDIS, I'm telling you!"
The YouTuber barked a laugh and glared at the wall behind where his tripod and camera sat, "What I'm trying to say is that the man creeps up on you. You're alone one minute, and then bam; you're getting yelled at by a short man with a caterpillar below his nose and bad breath.
Sherlock sighed down at the phone in his hand, headphones tucked into his ears in an act to shoo any unwanted visitors away, and hooded sweatshirt wrapped around him for good measure. Sat far in the very back of the cafeteria, at a round corner table, Sherlock smiled down at his notebook, tapping at the list he'd scribbled out, mindlessly atop the clean, white paper. He'd titled one side of the page, 'Songs I Must Learn,' and, with a dividing line between the very middle of the composition book, labeled the other side, 'Songs I Must Dance to.'
It was how he stayed organized – listing and graphing and charting and planning and sketching and devising all the next video ideas, all the notes for new songs, both musical and textual, all the different movements to perform across the shiny, wood floor of the school's empty studio. And he never let anyone in, never let anyone read it nor even sneak a glance.
There was a reason – well, several – of course, why he ran theballetbee as an anonymous composer and dancer. Because people in reality, in the real world, outside of the virtual cyberspace that made up YouTube, or Twitter, or the Internet in general, despised him. He was not likeable and never had been. To everyone who knew him, he was an egotistic, self-centered, arrogantly anti-social weirdo. He was fine with that.
To those who subscribed to his channel – to them? To them, he was the mysterious, graceful, musically talented stranger – he was an enigma, a puzzle never to be solved, a mask never to be removed. And he liked it that way – so that's the way it would stay. No one would ever know. No one.
He grabbed for his phone, tapping next on the screen and listening as his phone shuffled the online playlist and began a new melody, one he'd never heard before. It was French; that much was clear by the obvious accordion calling out alongside a soothing and rather melancholy piano. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the screen. 'Ballet of the Little Café,' it read, and 'Brian Crain,' in text beneath it. Oh yes. He'd definitely be dancing to this.
He reached for his pen, uncapping it and quickly scribbling the song's name into the appropriate column, smiling softly to himself, rather proud to have found such an invigoratingly new sound. It was because of this, and the fact that his phone's volume was turned to max, that he didn't hear the name calling out for him, only finally realizing and looking up unnaturally quick when the person who was in need of his attention tapped lightly on his shoulder.
When he spotted blue eyes and golden hair, he slammed his notebook shut, accidentally dropped his black pen, and scrambled for his phone, shoving it into his pocket and swallowing thickly as he yanked out his headphones, flailing idiotically. A sharp, joyful laugh, that Sherlock frankly found himself craving to hear more of, emanated out of the lips – those beautiful lips – of the rugby captain before him, and Sherlock looked up, embarrassment painting his cheeks a bright pink. John bent down slightly, expertly holding his lunch in one hand, and grabbed Sherlock's pen, holding it out for the curly-haired boy with a charming smile, of whom slowly took it, shyly swallowing and shoving it into the black backpack by his feet.
"Thank you," Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his eyes down to the closed notebook in his pale, slender fingers. Suddenly, he was glad he'd left the title area blank.
"Yeah, no problem," John grinned politely, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's awkward sitting position, his hooded sweatshirt, dirty Converse and skinny jeans, the way he was nibbling nervously on his bottom lip and fiddling with the corner of a tattered, rather worn down notebook.
When the blonde continued to stare and remain silent, Sherlock forced himself to look back up at the boy, his eyes narrowing in question, putting on his trusty 'you mean nothing to me' mask as he watched John smile that stupidly happy smile, "Yes?"
The rugby captain's ocean blue eyes widened rather rapidly and he was instantly coughing and fumbling nervously and one-handedly with his backpack straps, "Oh, I, uh," He swallowed and moved to the other side of the corner table, sitting directly in front of Sherlock, his lunch tray clattering against its surface as he seemingly collected himself, confidence right back in those ever-perfect features, "How are you?"
Sherlock blinked, "I'm sorry?"
John bit his lip, glanced down, swallowed, and then shrugged a shoulder, "How are you?"
With a scoff of disbelief, Sherlock shook his head and found himself glaring at the blonde boy, his brows drawn forwards in utter confusion, "You came all the way over here, from your usual table, just to ask how I am?"
John narrowed his eyes, looked up, and then nodded, smiling a suddenly very wide smile and chuckling softly, "Yeah, pretty much."
Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that.
So he simply frowned, slipped his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and stared narrowly at John, chewing on his bottom lip a little before shaking his head, "And they say I'm the freak."
John's brow furrowed, his smile dropping, and Sherlock panicked slightly, only slightly, concerned he'd said something wrong.
"Who's 'they'?"
Sherlock shrugged a single shoulder, his hands still pocketed, "Everyone." He signified his point by glancing around the cafeteria, observing the other students chucking food at one another, laughing through their obnoxious chewing, jabbing fingers at their friends, lifting milk cartons haphazardly into the air – an awful bunch really. There should be no weight to their opinions. They were all idiots. So why did it bother Sherlock so much? Why did it hurt?
"Well, people talk to amuse themselves," John began, jolting Sherlock from his thoughts, "and for some reason, talking complete shite about a person is funny."
Sherlock swallowed, watching John with a cautious, guarded expression, unsure whether his kindness was a trait, or a trick, "Unless it's merely true."
Those blue eyes flickered to meet Sherlock's own and he was instantly frozen in place, their deep, navy shine so entirely intense, Sherlock nearly forgot to inhale.
"Doubt it," John smirked, before grabbing his milk carton, folding it open, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. Sherlock watched as his throat bobbed and quickly glanced away, mentally slapping himself from his obvious gazing and glaring down at his scruffy notebook.
"So, what were you up to?" John asked suddenly, and Sherlock glanced up to see that he had moved on to picking at the small chicken sandwich atop his tray.
Sherlock arched a brow, "You mean, before you rudely interrupted me?"
"Oi," John chuckled, smiling, white teeth and all, "I picked up your pen for you. Don't make me regret it."
With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock let out a huff, "Oh, right. Yes. Good on you. I guess chivalry really isn't dead."
To his utter surprise, John let out a sharp giggle, grinning across the table at Sherlock, and looking – and sounding, mind – positively adorable. Sherlock blushed. Had he just made John Watson giggle?
"I don't get an answer then?" John smiled, itching the back of his neck and then leaning forward to take a rather small bite of his school lunch.
Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat, "Nope."
With another soft laugh, John nodded and shrugged a shoulder, "Fair enough."
Smirking, Sherlock grabbed for his notebook and reached down, sliding it into his backpack behind his other things, and securing it safely from view. When he lifted himself back up, he met John's eyes instantly – blue sapphires watching him curiously, narrowing in observant amusement, the corner of John's lips quirked up just slightly.
Unsettled with being on the spot, Sherlock gulped and glanced around nervously before facing John head-on once more, "Coach the Roach, then."
John's expression instantly lit up and he threw his head back, practically cackling from hilarity, an even wider grin than the one before now present on his face.
"You watched it?"
"Obviously."
"Did you like it?"
Sherlock looked away, observing the crowds of teenagers and lifting a shoulder carelessly, "It was satisfactory."
John scoffed, but the smile remained, "Gee, thanks."
Sherlock inwardly scolded himself – quite eager not to scare the boy away thank you very much – before turning back to John and lifting a curious brow, "Do you really call him that?"
John made to answer him, mouth open as he beamed at Sherlock, but his voice was replaced with another – one far harsher, far more unpleasant.
"Watson," Sebastian Wilkes snapped, stepping up to Sherlock's designated corner table – tucked away from the entirety of the student population, purposely chosen for such a reason – and placing his bulky, large hands on its surface, looming over Sherlock.
Suddenly, the curly-haired boy felt very, very small.
"What you doin' sittin' with Holmes?" He scoffed, raising one thick, black eyebrow at John, who sat discretely glaring his way, before running a hand over his slicked-back, black hair.
"Just chatting," John practically growled, biting the inside of his cheek as Sebastian turned to give Sherlock an entirely bitter once-over.
Sherlock simply stared at the table, one hand out of his pocket now and on the handle of his old backpack, more than ready to bolt.
"What, need a new subject for one of your videos?" Sebastian joked, smirking and barking out a revoltingly loud guffaw as he leered down at Sherlock's curly head, "You finding out about all his freaky faggot kinks?"
Within an instant, eager to keep from hearing John's response, whatever it may be, Sherlock jumped to his feet, barely meeting John's eyes as he turned away from the table, swallowing and clearing his throat, keeping his head downcast, "Enjoy the rest of your lunch, John."
And with that, he was walking as quickly as he could out of the cafeteria, bursting through the doors and reaching into his sweatshirt pocket, shoving his headphones back into his ears and trying desperately to forget about his interaction with one John Watson.
John stormed across the field; irritation and anger from earlier events still making his ears ring, still running his temperature high, still making his palms sweat with rage. He had no right. No right.
The blonde tugged at the loose material of his jersey, a scowl gracing his usually soft features as he kicked at the soppy green grass below his feet, lifting his head to watch as the rest of the team slowly made their way towards the middle of the field for the day's practice.
"John," He heard Mike call out from behind him, the stubby teen jogging up to his side and placing a warm hand on his shoulder, "Alright, mate?"
John shrugged it off and shook his head, clearing his throat and allowing his old friend a short, glaring glance, before sighing and running a hand through his damp hair.
"Let's just get this practice over with, yeah?"
With a nod of affirmation, Mike trailed beside him as they made their way toward the stretching group of rugby players, each of them laughing and teasing and joking and snickering to themselves. It just fueled John's already brewing anger.
He stomped over and plopped onto the grass, beginning his usual warm up, straightening out one leg and grabbing hold of his shoe, guiding the point of his toe until he felt the pull beneath and along the bottom of his calves – all the while, keeping his eyes trained on one person in particular. He watched as Sebastian Wilkes punched another teammate playfully in the arm, watched as he smirked darkly at another's joke, watched as he ran spider-like fingers through his black hair. And he did it all with a scowl firmly in place.
The high-pitched whirr of the coach's whistle jogged him from his glaring, knocking all of the boys into action, leaping to their feet and beginning to spread out across the field as the Roach barked orders their way. John jogged to where he needed to be and gazed out at his teammates, suddenly loathing them all, suddenly wishing he were anywhere else but here. And, even as things were kicked into gear and the drill began, John continued to gaze with a look of resentment until, before he knew it, he had a face full of bad breath and fuzzy mustache.
"Watson," Coach spat, glaring directly at him, jabbing a finger upward accusingly, "Distracted, are we?"
John shrugged a shoulder and frowned angrily down at the ground, choosing to spare himself the smell of old garlic and morning coffee.
"Oi," the man snapped again, two grimy fingers lifting to tap harshly at John's shoulder, forcing him backwards slightly before he finally met the coach's eyes, much to his own resent.
"I'm fine," He murmured, sighing loudly and kicking at the muddy ground with his cleats.
"Sure about that?" Coach the Roach interrogated, arching a thick brow and leaning down further into John's personal space, "You're team captain, Watson. Get your shit together, yeah?"
And with that, the insect-like man was trudging away, wandering off to yell at a few other members and taking his ever-present whistle and clipboard with him.
John rolled his eyes, glancing around to see if any of the boy's were paying him any attention, before his eyes settled on a distant figure, yet again lugging a rather large duffle bag beside him, his long, spindly legs carrying him forwards rather quickly in a direction he seemed quite set on. John swallowed, resisting the urge to run across the field and join him on his quest to wherever he was headed. Something about Sherlock was alluring in the most mysterious of ways. He was clever and intriguing of course, but there was something untamable in those eyes, and John had noticed since the beginning – something that said, "I belong to no one, and I listen to no one." It was that – that thirst to be himself no matter the judgment or question – that kept John on his toes, observing Sherlock's every move before he disappeared around the corner of the gym, hidden from view.
John sighed, turning back around in an attempt to regain his focus and take on whatever drills the coach had planned, only to be suddenly slammed into the ground, the forceful shove of a teammate's shoulder knocking him to the floor, earning him a face full of dirt and mud beneath his nails. Within an instant, he was lifting his head in rapid question, eyes wide in shock before they narrowed in silent fury, finding himself staring up into the face of an amused Wilkes.
"Pay attention, Watson," He scoffed, arching a brow and elevating his arms in a questioning shrug, "We've started a practice game, ya bloody dimwit."
He flew to his feet and fixed Sebastian with the darkest, meanest, most hateful glare he could possibly muster before nodding and shoving Wilkes lightly to the side as he readjusted himself and brushed the dirt and grass from his kit. If he spent most of that practice "accidentally" tackling Sebastian Wilkes to the ground, several times, and pondering chatting with Sherlock again – well – he wouldn't admit it to anyone.
Sherlock fixed his camera to it's tripod and let out a long, rather drawn-out sigh, shaking his head as he switched the device on and to recording mode. He'd be an idiot, of course – thinking that he could talk to another human being without there being repercussions. Fraternizing with another put himself in a vulnerable state. And John – captain of the rugby team, up in the popular scale, golden boy of Baker – was the worst person he could have possibly chosen.
With a soft growl, he reached for his shirt, lugging it slowly off and standing bare-chested in his black tights and pale pink ballet shoes. Stepping gracefully over to his duffle bag and pulling out his phone, he tapped in his pass code and brought up his music, scrolling through his playlists till he found the song he'd planned his next routine to. Smiling lightly to himself, he turned up the volume of 'Underneath', a melody he'd been meaning to dance to for ages now and leaned over to click the record button on the top of his camcorder.
Strip away the flesh and bone.
He pointed his toes, hands flowing downwards like waves of a waterfall, guiding the entirety of the viewer's eye with the curve of his slender pale back, the wings of a bee bending and weaving.
Look beyond the lies you've known.
He dropped his foot flat and then pushed up, to the very top of his pink shoe, body nearly light as a feather, arms outstretched.
Everybody wants to talk about a freak.
He danced without regret, without hesitation, knowing his face and hair and any defining features would be blurred from clear view.
No one wants to dig that deep.
And in an instant, he dropped from his tiptoes and collapsed to the ground, spinning across the studio floor, chest heaving, body whirling, movements graceful and poised for both beauty and emphasis.
He closed his eyes and forgot; forgot about his stupid crush on John Watson, forgot about the words spat at him from the mouths of pathetic jocks, forgot about the weight and force of his uncle's hand.
For the moment, flying across the wood floor, he just was.
Let me take you underneath.