Chapter 12
JOHN
The cafeteria was small with a shiny wooden floor and one oak panelled wall. The rest were painted a horrible pale peachy colour. It evoked memories of Katherine's office walls, Dr. Katherine Lee, but she had told him to call her Katherine. Long, Formica topped tables with unforgiving benches ran from one end to the other. The food was also rather disappointing. He had brought a pot of his mother's home made jam for such an eventuality, but it seemed he was going to run out before the end of the month. Maybe she could send more, but postage was expensive if it was all the way from northern Scotland. The house they owned there was large and remote, it wasn't really an ideal location, nor was it an ideal size, and it was in need of repairs. But, it was built by his great grandfather and consequently didn't have a mortgage. It was the only reason they lived there really, they couldn't afford anywhere else.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a low voice from behind his head.
"Morning." spluttering on a mouthful of hot tea, John spun around angrily. Laughter carried from the other tables, descending into clamorous whispers. They were talking about him and he didn't like it, since last night he had become even more concerned about what they were saying.
"Sherlock! You have got to stop doing that!" he said hotly, gesturing to the spilled tea all over the table.
"What?!"
"Sneaking up on people!"
"I don't sneak!"
"What was that then?!"
"It's not my fault you have defective hearing." John stared open mouthed, gesticulating furiously. Eventually giving up and throwing his hands down at his sides, he stormed to the kitchen area and grabbed a stack of paper towels.

Pulling his jumper over his head, he followed Sherlock to the glass doors of the police station, feeling slightly pleased when his friend held them open for him. The nerves had started to creep in, he hated the clinical atmosphere, the plain white walls, the muted glass, the uniformity. It brought it all back, reminding him of all the hospitals; god knows he'd seen enough of those to last a lifetime.

SHERLOCK
He loved being in the station, finally involved, surrounded by facts and information. They didn't love having him there. He saw the face of the solemn receptionist fall and his eyes fly to the ceiling as if praying for help. Sherlock marched straight up to him and leaning forward over the black polished wood.
"I need to see sergeant Barnard." the man sighed,
"he warned me about you, said if a boy with dark hair, scarf and short friend say they have to see me, tell them to leave."
"This is important!" why were that a so ignorant!
"Yeah, he said even if it's 'important'" John poked his head awkwardly round from behind him to see why's was going on.
"Ok, tell him this, I met the kidnapper. Well, her accomplice, I hacked their computer folders, I have about ten ideas about where she is now and John here nearly got shot in head by a Glaswegian in the process. Maybe he'll find that interesting. I know I did." he hadn't realised he was shouting until he reached the end of sentence and all he could hear was his heavy breathing in the deafening silence. Several more officers had turned to look. After what seemed like hours, the receptionist picked up the phone on the edge of the desk and pressed the intercom button.
"Sergeant Barnard, there's two boys here to... Yes, yes I told them that's what you said... Yeah, but... You might want to hear what they have to say... They nearly got shot... Ok, yes I'll send them trough in a minuet." Sherlock turned and smiled proudly at John, who was still standing uncomfortably a few paces behind him, one arm across his chest clutching the other at his elbow. Was this about what had happened in the woods?
"Alright boys, you can go through in a moment, if you wouldn't mind waiting..." he pointed at the plastic chairs over in the corner.

They both slumped heavily into the chairs, only to be disappointed by the lack of comfort they offered. John stared at the grey linoleum floor as though nothing could interest him more. Sherlock was no expert (surprisingly, he considered himself an expert in many fields) in body language and emotions, but he strongly suspected he knew what was on his friend's mind. He too was having difficulty pushing it to the back of his thoughts.
"Are you all right?" the words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew he wanted to say them. John raised his warm grey eyes slightly, and shook his head. Ah, right. Well, he didn't know what to do now. People were so confusing, what to say and do and what was accepted, expected, needed. "Why?"

JOHN
His shoulders lowered as he took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I don't like it. The whole... Clinical, white."
"What's wrong with white?"
"It's just, it reminds me of hospital. I've spent enough time in hospital." in the burns unit, the X-ray studio, the morgue, the emergency room, the crowded children's ward, the operating theatre, he could go on. The waiting was always the worst, whether it was waiting to see if you had fractured your ankle, waiting to finally be let out and enjoy the holidays again, or waiting for your father to wake up from a coma.

Eventually, although he could have waited forever, the officer behind the desk called over the bustling of people coming and going and the rustling of papers:
"You can go through now. He said you'd know the way." Sherlock nodded, springing up and straightening his coat and turning up the collar. He waited as John gathered himself and stood up. He couldn't help feel uplifted slightly, seeing him standing there, waiting. He never waited. John still felt awkward around him since yesterday, but he knew this was important. And even if he tried he couldn't bear to be sitting on his own in the boarding house. He couldn't bare to be in anyone else's company. Taking a deep, calming breath like Katherine had told him to, he walked forward, smiling slightly, and followed Sherlock down the corridor.

Sergeant Barnard sat leaning forward in his chair, hands resting on a balled fist. His eyes narrowed, swapping from one face to the other. John bit his lip uncomfortably and looked down at the carpeted floor. Both boys lowered themselves into a second set of plastic chairs.
"Right then, Mr Holmes, would you like to explain to me exactly what the hell is going on?!" John flinched unconsciously as the sergeant raised his voice. Sherlock shrugged,
"I could try,"
"You cannot just get in contact with a dangerous criminal! You can't just not give in any evidence you have! And you most certainly cannot just give something as important as that USB to the kidnappers!" all through this rant, Sherlock had sat motionless, but that final sentence saw him stand up angrily.
"So I was supposed to just them shoot us?!"
"You were supposed to give that USB to us as soon as you had the files!"
"There was no information on there you could use, but from going into that forest I learnt a whole lot more!" John's fingernails scratched the plastic surface of the underside of the chair, he hadn't realised he was clutching it so tightly, his knuckles were white as hospital walls.

SHERLOCK
He glared at the sergeant, their eyes were locked onto each other. In the end, Sherlock was the first to break the stare; how eyes flickered downwards to his friend. He could only see the top of John's blonde head; he sat tense and looking at the floor. His hands pale, clutching the underside of the chair, the tendons taught and visible against the skin. Seeing his discomfort, Sherlock sat back down, giving Barnard a 'stop shouting' look. The sergeant too sat done at the desk.
"So," he began, more gently this time, "you got the files onto the memory stick, and you, texted the kidnapper?"
"Yes." Sherlock was glad to see johns hands had relaxed slightly.
"And then you went to meet him..."
"Her, well her accomplices."
"Right, and, then what happened?" glancing over at the shorter boy, Sherlock answered,
"We met them. They ambushed us in a clearing, they were armed."
"So.." there was a long pause, Sherlock still unsure how exactly to say. Then, John spoke.
"He put a gun to my head." Sherlock and the sergeant both stared at him, shocked. "He said if we didn't give him the memory stick, he'd shoot me." his voice cracked slightly on the last few syllables.
"Right, and then, um..." Sherlock resumed the narrative, "I gave it to him."
"And?"
"They left. We went back to the boarding house, then I walked back to my house." Barnard nodded.
"And the password?"
"TruthUniversallyAcknowledged."
"What? How?" exhaling deeply, he rolled his eyes and spoke quickly.
"Quote in the letter, Austen. Carpet fibres, library. Only break in the dust line at the library, pride and prejudice, first line." Barnard sat still for a moment, before shaking his head
"I'll take your word for it. You boys can go." they rose in unison and headed for the door. "Wait." stopping, Sherlock rolled his eyes, ready for the lecture, john had continued through the door "I don't want you meddling in police affairs again, d'you hear me?"
"Yeah..."
"Holmes, I'm serious. Look where it got you."
"I'm fine!" Barnard raised an eyebrow, looking through the full length window at John, who was waiting outside, getting a glass of water,
"Is he?" that stumped him, which didn't happen often. He didn't know. And that was when it hit him, he didn't know anything about friendship, about people, about John. He didn't answer, he hated to say 'I don't know', he just walked out of the door.

As they walked, Sherlock was running though the facts in his head, all the information he knew about the boy walking beside him. To be honest, it was a very short list. He felt compelled to say something, but he didn't know what.
"Are you okay?"

JOHN
The sound of Sherlock's low voice brought him back from his thoughts abruptly.
"Oh, yeah," he mumbled, "fine." after a long pause, his friend spoke again,
"No you're not."
"Since when we're you an expert on my feelings?!"
"We'll I don't know, I guess yesterday have me some idea..." he responded sarcastically. John blushed, the embarrassment was still fresh in his memory. "I'm sorry." his head snapped back up again at this. Did Sherlock Holmes just apologise?! "Explain. I want to understand." pause "please?" he nodded slowly.
"Okay."

They sat down together on a damp wooden beach, butterflies had once again invaded his stomach.
"What do you want to know?"
"What happened in the hospital?"
"Everything. You know, just, bad experiences." Sherlock looked disbelievingly at him,
"I saw you gripping that chair for dear life, what's so bad about, white?"
"I hate it." it was all flooding back to him, "It's... to do with my dad. He was a UN army doctor. When we lived in Africa, we, we thought we were safe," he felt the moisture in the corners of his eyes, could almost taste the salt. Don't cry, don't cry. "They came in the night. They set the house on fire. They were armed, we couldn't get out. My dad... He was in a coma for nearly a week, I had burns, my mum broke her leg under a falling beam..." he paused to gulp at the air, he could almost hear her screaming. "We had to talk to the police, the army, the hospital. Katherine, Dr Katherine Lee. My therapist. My dad... He's dead." he could defiantly taste salt now, but his voice was steady. He suddenly felt cool dry skin against his feverishly hot hand. The pallid palm of his friend slipped into his relaxed fist. Rough skin, and yet gentle and calming. He felt safer, the few tears stopped flowing. John sat, staring down at their two hands for a moment before he looked up into Sherlock's face.
"What are you doing?" a faint pink glow rose in his pale cheeks,
"Another experiment?" silence. Their hands slowly intertwined, the long, ice cold fingers of the curly haired boy sliding into the gaps between John's own, he was embarrassed to find he was sweating slightly. "I'm sorry, John."

John didn't let go as they stood up, but he had to admit he was less at ease. Even when he had been going out with girls in the past, he had never liked showing public signs of affection, and felt too inwardly confused about Sherlock to show any outward signs. They weren't a couple, what happened in the wood, it didn't count. But he didn't let go, his legs were still shaking a little and that cold hand was the only thing keeping him from falling. Eventually, he felt the need to ask
"are we going to do this all the way to the boarding house?"
"I thought you were doing it?"
"I thought you were doing it, you started it!" silence, "I'm very confused, Sherlock."
"Me too." glad that it was mutual, John relaxed his grip, slowly pulling his hand away.
"Why did you do that?" John was shocked to hear a pining note in the usually low and measured voice.
"Well, what of someone sees us?"
"John, Mutton on the Wold isn't exactly the West Bourgh Baptist Church. No one's going to care"

"People will talk…"

"They do little else…"
"I know, it's just, well, I'm still confused, and, well, that's usually something couples do."
"What?"
"Holding hands, it's kind of a, thing couples do. We're not a couple."
"Oh."