Hey everyone! Here is a slightly longer chapter for all of you! Chapter five will be a lot longer, and that's where things are going to start to 'heat up'! :) Please read/review, and let me know what you think! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the associated characters (alas, alas!).
Chapter Four
Of course there was alcohol. Someone had brought a case of beer, and someone else a vodka bottle, and then three boys barged through the door with a plastic bag full of clinking bottles. Red plastic cups abounded. Music pulsed, blasting from various speakers. John wasn't even sure that the same song was playing—it might have been two or three different tracks, mixing together. The overall effect was slightly disorientating.
The party was held in a narrow brick townhouse off of Lerwick's main drag. It belonged to the family of a Newcastle student—John did not recognize his face or name—whose parents had gone away for the weekend. It was now full of drunken boys and girls, blaring music, and whirling lights.
John wound his way through the crowd, amidst the throbbing music. A group of girls were dancing wildly in the center of the living room. He passed Tom Washburn, who was fervently kissing a dark-haired girl. Several other members of the football team were in a similar position—John noticed Lawrence dancing with two girls, and Tom Washington upending a bottle of whisky into his mouth. John's fellow tenth years seemed preoccupied, so he went outside, into the back garden. It was a tangle of weedy flowers, and then a brick patio surrounded by grass. People had streamed out here, too, and were dancing and drinking. An eleventh year girl was swaying drunkenly on a glass table. John spotted Greg Lestrade standing with a group of older students, drinking from a red plastic cup.
"Lestrade!" John slapped his shoulder. He had never called Lestrade 'Greg'—no one ever had, mostly because there were already three other Gregs in the year twelve class.
"John!" Lestrade said brightly. There was a plain-looking girl standing beside him, drinking and looking sort of dejected. "This is Molly," He added. The girl looked up at the sound of her name, and gave John a weak smile.
"Hello."
"John Watson." He smiled. Molly's own smile, he noted, did not quite reach her eyes. Someone swooped by with a case of beer. John declined. He never drank at parties. Only Ruth Wester knew the reason behind his sober ways, and John was not looking to change that. When other students mocked his distaste for alcohol, John faked a smile and played along.
After a while John went back inside, where the music was loudest and the crowd thickest. He sat down on a sagging couch in the front room and tried not to look like a loser. Almost at once, a heavily made-up girl sat down beside him, inching into his lap. John started. She smiled widely.
"What's your name?" There was a decided slur to her voice.
"John." He tried to inch away. No such luck. The girl snaked a slender arm around John's neck. If not for the makeup, she would have been quite pretty—dark eyes, smooth skin, long brown-blond hair. She wore a very small dress: actually, John wasn't even sure that it qualified as a dress. A long shirt, maybe, but certainly not a dress.
"My name's Clarissa." She leaned in closer. He could smell beer and heady perfume—something floral. "It's really nice to meet you."
"Same to you." John put his arms around her waist and tried not to look pained. He could enjoy himself, he reminded himself. This was a party, after all.
"You go to Newcastle?"
"Yeah." He forced a smile. "You?"
"Hell," Clarissa tossed her long hair back. "No! But you're one of those academic types, then." She trailed a fingernail across John's arm.
"Not really, ha ha."
"Mmm?" Her face was growing closer and closer to John's. "Really?"
And then she was kissing him. John's eyes shot wide open. Clarissa was sort of...stirring...about on his lap, and John felt a hot blush burn his cheeks. He kissed her for a moment, but it was too long. John pulled away, aware that his breath was heavy.
"Sorry," He said. "Um, I'm sorry—I have to, uh..."
Clarissa stood up, looking surprised. John followed suit. He tried to walk away without breaking into a run. Clarissa went and sat beside another Newcastle student. John hastened outside, into the cool night. Molly was sitting on a wooden bench beside the house, alone. John sat gingerly beside her.
"Hey." He said softly.
"Hello," Molly offered him a dejected smile. "Not enjoying the festivities?"
"Not really," John admitted. He slumped forwards and raked his fingers through his hair. "It's kind of, uh, hot in there."
"Yeah." Molly stared at her hands. "Parties aren't really my thing, I guess."
She was pretty, in a plain-faced sort of way: hair pulled into a side-ponytail, eyes ringed with makeup. She wore a red dress that was neither low cut nor extremely tight. John wondered if this was why she hadn't been met with advances from male students.
"So," John said, trying to strike up conversation. "What year are you?"
"Ninth year." Molly said. "You?"
"Tenth."
"That's nice."
"I guess."
Molly drank from her plastic cup, looking bored. After a while, she stood up. "Well, I ought to get back to school soon. Classes tomorrow, and all."
"Yeah," John took a deep breath. The air smelt of cigarette smoke. "Me too."
Molly went and hugged Lestrade and another boy whom John did not recognize. He cut around the side of the house to avoid entering the front room: he was eager to avoid further encounter with Clarissa.
John walked back to Newcastle slowly, breathing deeply. The night air was cool and fragrant. After Lerwick's houses fell away, the dark fields stretched around him. The bulk of the distant hills was comforting. John felt troubled. Invariably, his mind drifted back to Clarissa's lips, her face, his hands around her waist. John knew that he should have felt something for her—lust, or attraction, or something. Instead, he had felt only warm, bitter awkwardness. Hollowness. There was nothing to even suggest attraction. Unlike the other boys, he did not find pleasure in Clarissa's slender figure in his lap. He didn't want to lead her down the dim hallway and into a dark bedroom. He didn't want to have sex on someone else's bed, with an anonymous girl who would probably forget the incident by the following week.
John wanted something, but he wasn't sure what that something was. And he knew that if he was sure, the truth would scare him.
Dark shapes staggered up the hill behind him, their laughter carrying in the still air, but John Watson walked back to Newcastle School alone, unable to shake a growing feeling of emptiness.
...
John let himself into 21B—221 B, he thought wryly, thanks to Sherlock Holmes—at eleven o'clock. The room was brightly lit, and Sherlock Holmes was laying on his back on the floor, reading a forensic science textbook.
"Hello," John said.
"Hello." Sherlock did not look away from his book.
John sat down on his bed. In the warmth of the dormitory room, he felt a little less hollow.
"What was her name?" Sherlock asked suddenly. John started. His heart beat a little faster.
"Uh," He cleared his throat and tried (rather unconvincingly) to look confused. "Whose name?"
"The girl that you were," Sherlock paused for a split second, his eyes flickering with something that might have been distaste, "Shagging."
John meant to cough, but instead let out a high-pitched squeaking sound. "Um. Er."
Sherlock stood up and set the textbook down. "It's hardly abnormal behavior. Natural human instinct. Mating rituals."
John did not know which was stranger—that Sherlock Holmes knew that he had been kissing a girl, or that he had just referred to such activity as "mating rituals".
"Clarissa." John admitted. "I think."
Sherlock's expression did not waver. He tossed the textbook onto the desk. John took his towel and his pajamas and went to go take a shower.
He stood under the stream of hot water until it went lukewarm, lost in troubled thought. Dating was natural human instinct—even freaky-smart, anti-social Sherlock knew that much. Dating girls was natural instinct for teenage boys. He was supposed to have kissed Clarissa back with fervor, and then led her into a bedroom and done what his classmates had done. But he had not.
Because I'm not normal.
John stood in the shower for longer than strictly necessary, his face buried in his hands.
I should have felt something. I should have felt something. I should have...
Was he the sticker on the dormitory door, all crooked and wrong, waiting for someone to come along and straighten him out, to come along and fix him?
John turned his face into the stream of water and tried to answer his own question, but in the end he only felt empty and confused.
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, wearing pajamas. Sherlock was sprawled on his bed, scribbling furiously in a small leather-bound notebook.
"That a diary?" John joked, nodding towards the book. Sherlock ceased writing at once, threw his pen aside, and closed the little notebook.
"No." He said icily. "It's not a diary."
"I was just kidding around," John said. "Sorry."
There was a moment of silence. Then Sherlock said,
"It's alright, John."
And John felt that much better.
...
John fell into bed at midnight—Sherlock took a lengthy shower and came out, soon after, with his hair damp. He wore blue and white striped pajamas, and a funny maroon bathrobe. John had never met anyone who wore a bathrobe, except maybe his elderly neighbor, Mr. Higgs.
Sherlock climbed into bed at ten past midnight. John was laying beneath his thin Arsenal blanket, his mind a million miles from the small Newcastle dormitory room.
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said softly. His voice was clipped.
"Night, Sherlock." John replied.
He lay on his back for a long time, arms behind his head, unable to sleep. The sound of Sherlock's breathing filtered through the cool, still air. Far away, through many walls, came tinny music. There was no sign of the houseparent, who usually performed a cursory checkin. John closed his eyes and, at last, fell into an uneasy sleep.
...
Morning dawned clear and cold; at six-thirty, John awoke to find Sherlock already dressed in his uniform. There was no denying that he looked very sharp—with his dark hair curling over his ears, wearing a smart blue blazer and carrying his leather schoolbag. John dressed hurriedly in his own uniform: black pants, a white button-down shirt, and navy blue blazer. He stood in front of the mirror on the closet door, feeling sort of satisfied that he'd come this far. This time six years ago, he had been attending a shabby local primary school and kicking a half-flat football around on a muddy stretch of brown field. And now, somehow, John Watson had hauled himself up by his bootstraps, to the halls of Newcastle.
He packed his textbooks into his leather book-bag—it was standard for Newcastle students to carry some kind of "satchel, backpack, or book-bag, preferably leather", according to the dress and uniform codes. John used his mother's old book-bag, a relic from her own schooldays.
Sherlock and John walked down to cafeteria together, beneath a pale blue sky. Wispy pink and white clouds swirled across the heavens, stirred by a clear, cold breeze. John was glad that they were wearing thick blazers.
The two boys took their places in a winding food line—John saw several other football team members carrying trays of food to various tables. The cafeteria's exterior was old—Gothic, if John remembered correctly—but the interior was built like any other school eatery: white walls, long plastic tables meant to look like wood, and food that was mediocre at best.
Sherlock seized a plastic tray from the rack and handed one to John. They filed to the end of the line, receiving their food from a cross-looking lady in a hairnet. She scooped what smelled like porridge onto John's plastic plate, then dropped on several pancakes. There were oranges in a plastic bowl at the end of the line, but John skirted past it. Sherlock declined porridge but took an orange.
"At least there's pancakes," John muttered as they sat down at a crowded table. It was standard to eat breakfast with one's roommate, so that no one had to eat alone. Nonetheless, Sherlock looked surprised. He cocked an eyebrow and twirled a tin knife between his fingers.
"You're sitting with me?"
"Yeah," John tipped a packet of syrup over his pancakes. "Why wouldn't I?"
Sherlock gave a sort of half-smile. "No reason," He said softly, and began to peel his orange.
No sooner had John finished his pancakes and put the plastic tray into the wash rack had the morning bell rung.
"Time to get to class!" Sherlock announced, sweeping past John with his empty tray. John followed his roommate through the cafeteria doors, out into the central quad. He consulted his schedule and discovered that he had English Literature.
"So've I," Sherlock said. They started off across the quad's damp green grass, headed for the other side of the school. "This class is bound to be interesting."
There was an unmistakable note of scorn in his voice. John hooked his schoolbag higher over his shoulder.
"Why's that?"
"Have you seen the dullards in our year?" Sherlock raked one hand through his dark hair. "They can hardly spell their own names, let alone comprehend the intricacies of Great Expectations or Hamlet!"
"Oh," John laughed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."
The English classroom was a vast room built like a lecture hall. The desks were real wood, and everything was a relic from Newcastle's earlier days. Sherlock and John filed into the classroom along with the rest of their class. John noticed the two Toms (Washburn and Washington) hurrying to seats in the back row. He thought about joining them, but didn't want to miss anything. John had always liked English. Instead, he took a seat in the third row from the front. Lawrence Hanks came and sat beside him.
Sherlock claimed a seat in the very front row. John wasn't surprised.
The teacher strode in several minutes later. Mr. Barnes was middle-aged, heavyset and pasty. He had an unfortunate penchant for ill-fitting tweed suits.
"Alright, class!" Mr. Barnes dropped a thick stack of file folders onto his desk. He seized a piece of chalk and scrawled 'English 10' across the chalkboard. "Hopefully, many of you recognize me from last year."
This was true. Mr. Barnes had previously taught ninth year English, but had been moved up to English 10. John didn't mind, because Mr. Barnes liked to include a lot of writing projects in the curriculum, and John liked writing very much.
"This year, you've got to up your game. In eleventh year you'll be taking Advanced English, which is much, much more difficult than this class. Year twelve will be your final year before university—" Here he paused and stared meaningfully around the room, "And you'll need to be prepared. There's no slacking off in this class, understand?"
There was a general murmur of consent. Mr. Barnes gave a nod of satisfaction, then turned back to the chalkboard.
"We start with Jane Eyre. This book should by no means be difficult to read, but it will take time." He wrote 'Jane Eyre' across the chalkboard in tall, bold letters. "I expect everyone to have their copy of the book in class by tomorrow. We'll go over the basics today."
In the second row, a pigtailed girl raised her hand.
"Yes, Miss..."
"Lathers, sir. Becca Lathers. I haven't got my copy, sir. I've left it at home."
Mr. Barnes grimaced. "Phone your parents tonight. Ask them to post it to you. In the meantime, I'll lend you a copy."
"Thank you, sir."
Mr. Barnes spun the chalk between his long, pale fingers. Then he chalked the word 'Bildungsroman' across the board. "Who knows the meaning of this word?"
Only one hand shot up.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Barnes pressed his lips together. Apparently, he had taught Sherlock before.
"A bildungsroman is a novel dealing with a central character's formative years." Sherlock recited, as if reading from a mental encyclopedia.
"Ah," Mr. Barnes pressed his lips further together, into a sharp line. "Yes. A coming-of-age story."
He underlined 'bildungsroman'. "On the surface, Jane Eyre is a story of forbidden love between a governess and her employer."
Several of the girls giggled.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lawrence muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'm not reading a bloody fairy tale."
Mr. Barnes continued on like that for the next hour. His idea of "covering the basics" of Jane Eyre included lengthy descriptions of the Victorian Era gender and class constructs. He managed to make reference to numerous other books and movies, none of which the class had seen.
"You need to educate yourselves!" Mr. Barnes said loudly. "Jane Eyre is a highly historical novel. Some is based on events that actually shaped the author's life." He paused. "Who wrote Jane Eyre?"
One hand shot up, followed by several more timid ones.
"Someone other than Mister Holmes, please."
Of course. John couldn't help but smile a little. Doubtless, Sherlock performed like in every class. He probably spent all of his free time pouring over textbooks, trying to glean facts that would impress the teachers into silence.
Someone else answers the question correctly. This did not stop Sherlock from recounting a lengthy tale about Charlotte Bronte's harrowing experiences at a girl's boarding school in Victoria England.
"It is, of course, the real-life Lowood School, where Jane—"
"Holmes," Mr. Barnes said coldly. "Have you already read the book?"
"Of course," Sherlock replied, not missing a beat. He seemed confused as to why someone wouldn't spend their summer holiday reading a lengthy tome about a twisted, forbidden relationship.
"Well, let's try not to ruin it for the rest of the class, shall we?"
Sherlock fell silent. John could not see his roommate's face, but he was sure that Sherlock was smirking.
"God damn freak." Lawrence hissed. John could not help but laugh quietly.
"I think it's kind of funny," He said. Lawrence fell silent, scowling. John stared at his desk and smiled.
Thanks for reading! Chapter Five will be up later today, or possibly tomorrow!