John had spent his first week wrapped up in football (or soccer, right, why did they have to call it soccer in America?) and homework. His roommate, Lucas, who was also on the soccer team, had invited him to a party Friday night. John was tempted to go, but he had pages and pages to read and outline for chemistry and an essay due for biology. There was a test on Monday for psychology and the threat of a pop quiz still lingered in John's mind from Doctor Holmes's ominous words. Of course he wanted to go to the party. But he was afraid of anything other than an A. He had made it to this college purely on academic and athletic scholarships. He couldn't afford to slip on his grades or skills. One wrong move and he'd end up back home.
It was Friday night. Lucas was partying with pretty much everyone else in the school. And John was sitting in the library, trying to memorize the process of DNA replication. He groaned with frustration at the colorful diagrams in his textbook and the sheets of homework that surrounded him.
"You're doing it wrong, you know," a voice said from behind John. John nearly jumped out of his seat and whipped his head around.
"Oh, it's you."
Dr. Holmes smirked. "It's me. You're doing your diagram completely wrong, didn't you realize?"
"No," John said. "If I realized, I wouldn't be doing it wrong, would I?"
The taller man gave a dramatic sigh and pulled out the chair next to John. He plopped into it. John watched with wary eyes, somewhat confused.
"See? Your ligase and replicase are in the complete wrong spots," Sherlock said, pointing at John's drawing.
John sighed. "Thanks, I guess," he said, scribbling out the enzymes. His pen hovered over the page in confusion, not sure where to put them.
"Here," Sherlock said softly, pointing to a spot on the paper. "That's where the ligase goes. And the replicase goes here."
John turned towards his teacher. "Why are you here?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I was coming to read some forensics books when I saw you struggling. I thought I might help."
"I wasn't struggling."
"Your shoulders gave you away. Tense, hunched."
"Why are you helping me?"
Sherlock shrugged again. "I'm your teacher. Isn't that what teachers do?"
"Yes, maybe, if I was having problems with chemistry. This is biology. And you're Dr. Holmes. You hardly ever help anyone."
"That's true," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "But you're different."
"I don't understand," John protested. "Why do you keep saying I'm different? You don't even know me."
"I can read your body language well enough to know you're not average. And there's something about you that I find... tolerable."
"Tolerable?" John scoffed. "Well, thanks. It's late. I should probably be going. Thanks for your help, Dr. Holmes."
Sherlock shifted slightly in his chair. "Call me Sherlock, please. And John..." He shifted again, only the slightest bit so that John wasn't sure if he really had at all. "The bruises on your arms... I know what it's like. To have that happen. If you ever need anything... just let me know, okay?"
John's face flamed up as he scrambled to pick up all his books. "I don't know what you're talking about," he whispered. He reached out for his chemistry book but Sherlock stopped him, grabbing his wrist.
"I'm serious John," Sherlock told him, staring him in the eye. "You don't deserve that kind of abuse. I don't want to see you back here after break with fresh bruises. If you need anything, tell me. I want to help."
"I have to go," John said, shifting his gaze away from the stunning blue eyes boring into him. He twisted his wrist out of Sherlock's grip and added the book to his stack before shuffling away. When he got to his dorm, he dropped the stack of work on his desk and flopped onto his bed. Sherlock knew. He knew Sherlock had some idea when he mentioned the bruises the other day, but now John was positive he knew that the bruises hadn't been from local high school bullies. And that he would likely come back from break with more.
He stared at the ceiling above him. And Sherlock had said he knew what it was like. John was tempted to ask. His father? His mother? Both? But he had been anxious to get away from those knowing eyes. They were so perceptive. That's why he was being treated different, because Sherlock had seen the bruises. And Sherlock knew what it was like. John felt sick. He didn't want to be seen as a victim. He didn't want any special treatment. He came to America to feel normal. To get away from all of that.
That night, John tossed and turned in bed, unable to keep the brilliant grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes out of his dreams.
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