"Sherlock, for the love of all things holy, where is my bloody shirt?" John circled their room once more, throwing objects out of his way, ducking to grapple under the beds and desks and chairs; like he was participating in some obscene dance. He looked up to see a familiar smirk grace Sherlock's face, proud shoulders oozing nonchalance as he held his hands in a neat prayer under his chin.

"I'm afraid I just don't know,"

"Damn it Sherlock, come on!"

"I fail to see how this is my fault-"

"Sherlock bloody Holmes! For some reason you don't want me to go on my date-"

"Hardly a date, John," Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing as if he were far superior to this errant child.

"Screw you! What's your bloody problem? Are you...God, are you jealous?" The moment the words had left his mouth John regretted them. He snapped his jaw shut eyes wide as he observed Sherlock's reaction.

But there was barely a flutter of an eyelid.

The taller boy had maybe tensed and John could have sworn he saw surprise chased by hurt blink across the younger boys face but it was too quick to call a valid response. Sherlock slowly blinked; his arms relaxing down to grip the desk either side of his hips; face - characteristically yet dishearteningly - blank.

"Your shirt is hanging behind the left curtain," his voice was monotone, each syllable slow and clear. John released his breath, softly muttered a thank you and tried to finish dressing himself to meet Sarah. His fingers fumbled inelegantly over his shirt buttons, suddenly heavy under Sherlock's scrutinising gaze. After several failed attempts to align his shirt correctly, each separate button downright refusing to meet its assigned partner, John huffed agitatedly, throwing a concerned glance toward the clock. A certain genius appeared right beside him and bent his curly head down to John's ear, soft tendrils tickling the elder's cheek while long fingered hands fluttered over the shirts front, John found himself fighting a blush whenever Sherlock's fingertips brushed his chest. The nimble soft tips felt cool against John's exposed skin, his muscles twitched under such light touches; he would deny ever having bitten his lip or releasing the surprised, sharp gasp when Sherlock's palms slid over his rugby-toned pecs. 'Doesn't matter,' John assured himself, 'Sherlock will have noticed and will by no means question it. After all he's a sociopath, not one to care about real emotions.' Watson tried to convince himself that he wasn't even the slightest part bitter about that.

"You look dashing, John Watson," was whispered into charged air, a lingering moment of high strung silence, punctuated by a lack of personal space. Hot breath brushing over John's shoulder and down his neck, eyelashes tickling his cheek-

With a quick downward glance Sherlock arched a perfectly bowed eyebrow, "though, a pair of trousers is marginally more socially acceptable, I've heard." John dropped Sherlock's gaze to see he hadn't yet put on his dress pants. By time he looked up Sherlock was gone, already bent over an experiment.

'Bastard ruined the moment,' John's breath caught in his throat. 'He'll be the bloody death of me.' John felt strangely fond of that notion and he smiled while reaching promptly for a pair of black slacks.

John hadn't been kidding when he said he didn't enjoy parties and he reinstated his opinion with feeling as he stood in a darkened corner beside a blaring speaker. He had no idea where Sarah was and John was beginning to feel uncomfortable under curious glances and the whispered commentary; he was still relatively new and Sarah... Well she was something of a hot commodity here, being one of the founding families' youngest daughters and all.

"New kid!"

Fuck.

Anderson's voice buzzed over the music. The lanky bully slid in front of him just as John caught a glance of Sarah across the room. "I told you that you were going to pay," he hissed, directly into John's ear. "Now you have, fag," he spat and as quickly as he'd come, Anderson left.

John couldn't tell if he'd imagined the tiny, scarlet stain on the bully's white shirt.

What did he mean? John shrugged, deciding that he'd discover whatever disgusting, school-boy prank was waiting for him later, for now the beautiful girl across the room was waiting for him.

John slalomed through the crowd toward her, her cream evening gown sparkling in the low light. "Sarah!" He called.

Wait had Anderson called him...a fag?

Sarah looked up and grinned in his direction. Why would he call him that if he's going out with Sarah whom is notably female?

"John!" She called back starting towards him. The only other time he'd heard Anderson call any one that, he'd been referring to-

"Sherlock," John whispered. Shock forced him to stand still, of course Anderson would go after Sherlock but surely the younger boy was alright-

"John?" Sarah was still heading toward him, looking concerned now. But the red stain screamed at John and the older boy's stomach dropped. Sherlock was alone tonight...the only student who would not attend this party-

A hand curled around his bicep and John jerked away; startled. He couldn't register the look of hurt and confusion on Sarah's face. "John, what's wrong?"

"I...have to go. Sorry, Sarah, it's an emergency," John hastily patted the girls arm and pushed away immediately breaking into a jog. As he hit the doors into the main hall he pushed to a sprint, the whole time images of Sherlock, broken and bloody, colouring his mind.

John's knee ceased and cramped but the boy ran on, refusing to stop when his friend needed him.

"Too many bloody halls," he muttered as he turned another wrong corner; Left, left, right- dead end, "Crap," John turned and almost ran past the staircase to his dorm floor. He counted each step in his mind as he flew up them, two ago. One, two, four, six-

"Ouch!" A girl yelled as John knocked her straight off her feet, flat onto her back. With an impatient sigh John stopped, turned and helped pull the girl to her feet, her cold blue eyes glared at him for a second and then they widened, they looked almost fearful.

"I'm so sorry, I'm just- it's an emergency-" John stated.

"Yes," the girl whispered, eyes locked on John under her short blonde hair, she wore a startling red dress that made her fair features brighter; sharper. "Go, John, I'm sorry I -" her ice blue eyes seemed to melt as they filled with tears. "Please, go." And then she turned and ran the way John had come. What the hell-?

Sherlock; John shook the strange girl from his mind and pushed on up the stairs, right onto his corridor, straight down it, past the "secret" entrance and on and on- the trip had never felt this long before. John skidded left and took the last steps toward his room- one, two, three, "Sherlock!"

A bloody handprint smeared the wall beside his door and John gulped. His hand trembled as he reached for the door knob, twisted and pushed.

"Oh my God," he breathed and stepped inside.