Hello and welcome to the fourteenth chapter of The Education of Sherlock Holmes. Welcome also to all my new followers. I do hope that you continue to stay with me for the duration of our journey together. Words cannot describe my love for the amazing willow trees of awesome that are FrankandJoe3, All my fandom tears, and Sagaria. I do believe I love you with every fibre of my being.

This chapter will include: Johnlock, Simon Holmes, and drugs (whoo).

Chapter Fourteen: Calm before the Storm

Sherlock awoke to the sounds of John working in the kitchen. Smiling to himself, the detective got out of bed and walked naked to the kitchen doorway, standing for a moment watching as John cooked breakfast. After peacefully watching the dressed doctor for a bit, Sherlock walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around John's waist.

"Why are you leaving?" Sherlock asked quietly into John's ear, his voice sending shivers through the other man's body.

"Because I have to go to surgery," John breathed as Sherlock kissed, licked, and nibbled his neck.

"But I don't want you to go," Sherlock purred, his body pressed against John's, his chin on John's shoulder as he continued working on the doctor's neck.

John's eyes fluttered shut and his head moved back and to the side, his hands gripping the counter. He could feel Sherlock's naked erection against his arse and felt the familiar tingling pressure of his own erection beginning to strain against his pants and trousers.

"Sherlock, no," John struggled to say, fighting to resist the fiery passionate desire creeping up his body. "I need to go."

"Not right now," Sherlock said hypnotically, lowering one hand in between John's legs.

"Sherlock," John breathed, trying to remember why he needed to protest as the detective began massaging his very prominent hard-on, his own eagerly pressing against the doctor.

"John," Sherlock murmured, the deep vibrations of his voice going straight to John's balls.

"I need to…" What was it he needed to do? Go somewhere. But where?

"You can't go anywhere with this," Sherlock said, palming John's erection and nibbling his neck.

Made sense to John. But wait, no, he thought as he started to turn to his detective. He needed to go somewhere. Somewhere important. Somewhere… Somewhere… Surgery!

"Sherlock, I have to go," John said firmly, gently tugging the detective's arms away from his waist.

"But what about this?" Sherlock asked a bit more seriously, rolling his hand against John's crotch.

"I'll take care of it myself," John replied, knowing there was no way his erection would fade on its own.

Sherlock whined sexily into John's ear and pressed his hand more forcefully against John's clothed dick.

"Sherlock," John said again, his voice the warning tone that one would use on a dog or a small child. "If I let you get me off, then we'll end up having sex for hours and I really do need to go."

Sherlock sighed into his ear and he thought that the detective was just going to go at him anyway when the other man said, "Fine" and reluctantly released him.

John breathed shakily and looked down at the now-charred eggs. He threw the eggs into the garbage disposal and quickly whipped up another batch, tea, and two slices of toast. By the time he had fixed up two plates, Sherlock had cleared off the kitchen table and wrapped himself in his bed sheet.

They comfortably ate breakfast together and John somehow miraculously managed to coax his dick into complacency and it no longer demanded attention. When he was done, he put his dishes in the sink, gave Sherlock a kiss on his forehead, and scurried out the door.

Sherlock sighed, put his own dishes in the sink, and went to flop down on the couch, already bored. There weren't any new cases and no one had emailed him and John about anything important. The most interesting thing was a teenager asking about his missing dog that was obviously run over by his father.

He had finished all his experiments and John had taken his gun so that Sherlock wouldn't shoot anything. He stared at the ceiling and considered going through John's mail, but there was never anything interesting aside from an occasional letter or email from a parent or his sister. He thought about going through John's room and clothing to see what he could find out, but John always got upset whenever he did that. He could find out what Lestrade was doing and send mass texts to mess with him, but that was too easy. And he didn't have the pleasure of actually being there. He could hack into the Scotland Yard's database, but, again, that was too easy.

Sherlock groaned in frustration and walked to the window, looking out at the world. He could always get himself hard again, but he was above such aboriginal activities. He watched the people milling around, quickly scanning one person and moving on to the next, looking for anyone remotely interesting. At one point, he thought he'd found a young woman who was planning to kill her fiancés dog, but on closer inspection, he realised that she was merely fantasising about it.

He considered calling Simon and smiled at the thought, but no, it was Thursday and the boy would be in school. Of course, he could just call him anyway and Simon would be thrilled to receive a call from his uncle, but then Mycroft would be upset with him. Not that he cared—his brother lived in a near-constant state of annoyance at him that he usually caused—but life was easier when Mycroft wasn't actively annoyed.

But, then again, he could just make Mycroft do what he wanted if he ever wanted anything from the man. After all, Sherlock didn't care what people thought of him and Mycroft had a lot more to lose than he did. And it was fun to annoy Mycroft in front of his important associates and show them who was really in charge.

He told all this to John, who was probably reading the newspaper, used to Sherlock thinking out loud.

"What do you think, John? Should I call Simon or should I just do something else to annoy Mycroft?" he asked, still looking out the window.

"Simon's in school, Sherlock," John said reasonably.

"Yes, but he's a genius and doesn't need to pay attention in school."

"Is it even worth asking you to try to avoid annoying Mycroft?"

"Probably not," Sherlock said, smiling mischievously.

They were silent for a moment while Sherlock thought and John presumably read the paper.

"John. Phone," he said, still smiling to himself and observing the outside world.

"John," he said again after his doctor didn't immediately respond. "Phone."

He turned and looked around the flat for his doctor.

"John?" He waited a moment more before retrieving his phone from the table beside his chair.

Where are you?—SH

John's reply came a few minutes later.

Surgery. I told you—JW

I was just talking to you.—SH

Wasn't there for that.—JW

How long have you been gone?—SH

20 minutes. I told you repeatedly where I was going.—JW

Hm. Must've deleted it.—SH

I've gotta go.—JW

Bored.—SH

Play your violin.—JW

Sherlock checked the time (8:20) and stared out the window for a while longer, holding his sheet and phone while observing all the people going about their silly little lives. It was almost pathetic how easy it was to discern all of their so-called secrets. One woman's appearance practically screamed dissatisfaction with her job. He wondered how anyone failed to notice things that were so blatantly obvious.

His thoughts again strayed to Simon and how much he wanted the boy to be like him—in intelligence at least. Of course, he didn't want Simon to get involved with drugs, but he wasn't going to be as controlling as Mycroft. He would simply observe and give the boy a helpful nudge if he needed it.

Sherlock held his sheet closed with one hand and kept watching out the window as he called Simon's number.

"Hello?" Simon said almost immediately.

"Simon, no phones during class," Sherlock heard the teacher say in the background.

"But, Miss, it's my uncle. He's got cancer and we don't know how much longer he's going to last. Please, Miss, can I please talk to him? I… I love him so much."

Sherlock smirked to himself at how convincing Simon sounded. He could hear the fake tears in the boy's voice and knew his teacher would crumble under his innocent, wide-eyed gaze.

"Well… Okay, then," the teacher said reluctantly.

"Thank you, Miss," Simon said emphatically with exaggerated gratitude and false sniffles.

There was some shuffling, some walking, a door opening, and finally the click of a bathroom door.

"That was way too easy," Simon said, pride and happiness replacing any false sadness. His voice also contained the eager pleasure of doing something against the rules. "I mean, she practically gave me that excuse since her tone and demeanour obviously said that she'd lost someone recently."

"People are so obvious that way," Sherlock agreed, smiling and almost laughing in his pride for the boy. "But what if she calls home and asks about your 'uncle'?"

"I recently changed the contact information on my official forms so that the contact number is mine rather than Father's. That way, whenever the school calls, I let it go to voicemail and if it's important, I let Father know about it," Simon replied, struggling to keep his voice cool and normal and keep out his well-hidden desire for approval from his idol.

"Very good," Sherlock praised, feeling the boy's incredible happiness through the phone. "But what if Mycroft finds out?"

"If he finds out, then I don't care," Simon said, his own joy and pride flowing into Sherlock and the detective resisted the urge to say, "That's my boy".

"So, what's up?" Simon asked eagerly. "Is there a new case?"

"Regrettably, no," Sherlock said casually, following random people with his eyes. "There are no new cases and John left for surgery apparently… an hour ago." Sherlock paused to check the clock.

"Was the double homicide drug thing your last case?" Simon asked with burning curiosity. "That one where you were on a combination of ecstasy, LSD, and cocaine?"

"Yeah, that was the last case we had."

"How did you survive that, by the way? To take that kind of combination and survive is medically impossible."

"I can't really be killed that easily."

"But how did the victims survive that?"

"How do you know that wasn't the cause of death?" Sherlock asked, wanting to test the boy.

"Oh, please. If that was the cause of death, you wouldn't have taken those drugs. You knew they were alive and you wanted to see what their mental and physical capacities would be in such a state. And I would've known that even if it wasn't on John's blog. So how did they survive that?"

"You don't know?" Sherlock inquired, smiling again.

He could practically hear Simon running a hand through his hair in frustration. He sighed and thought for a moment before saying, "The drugs were either diluted to reduce the potency or they were combined with another drug that would be masked by the other drugs—No. The drugs were either diluted or a different drug was put into their systems that would keep them alive after being injected by the cocktail. But you're good enough that you would've caught another drug, so the drugs were diluted to reduce the potency." He spoke almost faster than Sherlock and spoke with the same confidence that Sherlock used to irritate most everyone he interacted with.

"That was brilliant," he said honestly, not failing to recognise the fact that the person he praised the most was one who amounted to a younger version of himself.

"Thank you," Simon said as if accepting a compliment that he always knew to be true, though Sherlock knew that he was smiling widely.

"We should play chess sometime," Sherlock remarked.

"We should," Simon agreed easily. "Did you and Father ever play chess?"

"Nine times out of ten, I won," the detective said, only showing off a bit. "Which is why he stopped playing against me."

"I bet I could win against you," Simon said with Sherlock's cockiness and confidence.

"Confidence can be your downfall."

"It's never been yours."

"I'm as good as I think I am."

"As am I."

Sherlock smiled wider as his phone beeped.

"I believe John just texted me," he said to his nephew.

"I suppose that this means I have to return to the den of idiocy and unsupported arrogance that is school."

"We shall meet again soon."

"I look forward to it."

With that, Simon hung up and Sherlock looked at his mobile and smiled fondly before going to check his messages.

Can you pick up some bread and milk?—JW

Why don't you do it?—SH

I'm busy.—JW

So am I.—SH

You're at home. –JW

Busy.—SH

Please, Sherlock?—JW

Fine. Anything else?—SH

Some tea would be nice.—JW

Okay.—SH

Thank you. -JW

Don't do that. You know I hate emoticons.—SH

:P—JW

Stop it.—SH

Y?—JW

John, do not type like that.—SH

Y not? Its txt speak. Im txtng.—JW

Stop it.—SH

Or wat? :P—JW

Or I will come down there and irritate everyone so much that they will fire you.—SH

… Spoil sport.—JW

Stop being childish.—SH

Go get the groceries.—JW

3—JW

What is that even supposed to be?—SH

A heart. It means I love you.—JW

Don't do that.—SH

Love you?—JW

Use emoticons.—SH

I love you too.—SH

Sherlock put his phone down and went to get dressed. He put on black pants, black trousers, a black belt, and a dark purple button-up. He went back into the living room and put his mobile in his pocket before pulling on black socks, his shoes, and his coat and scarf. He left the flat and checked in with Mrs Hudson before exiting 221B

He put his hands in his pockets and walked with his head held high and his shoulders back, the picture of confidence with a touch of arrogance, looking through everyone who passed him. Some of them eyed him warily, some with admiration, but he paid no attention to any of them.

"Help," he heard a small voice said from the alleyway to his left. He stopped and looked curiously and cautiously into the alley.

"Help. Please." The voice was a child, male, eight years old.

His voice was full of genuine terror and Sherlock looked around for a moment before guardedly entering the alley, his senses alert for anything indicative of a trap. He walked in the direction of the voice and stopped, listening and waiting.

"Please help me."

Sherlock knelt on the ground in front of the Dumpster to his right.

"Hello?" he asked quietly, curiously, looking around the Dumpster.

"Help me," the boy said with a fearful urgency.

Through the thin shadows created by clouds, Sherlock looked underneath the Dumpster and saw the little boy crouched in a recess dug into the ground, his body forced into a tiny ball.

"Please help me," he said again, his voice shaky, bright green eyes terrified.

"Okay. Hold on." Sherlock examined the wheels of the Dumpster, went to the side, and began pushing at the Dumpster. After about five minutes, Sherlock finally found a good angle and got the Dumpster to move. He shoved and pushed for a while longer before he had created a sizable space for the boy to get out.

He crouched beside the boy and held out his hand.

"It's okay. Come on," he said, trying to be comforting.

The boy shrank away from him and gave a squeak of terror. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion and he felt a needle stab into the side of his neck. He fell to the ground and tried to throw his arm out, but it felt as if he were underwater, his limbs moving slowly, his body unable to draw oxygen. His vision blurred and he saw the vague outline of a man crouching in front of him.

"Time to sleep, Mr Holmes," the man said before Sherlock's vision went blank and he fell into unconsciousness.

I realise that this was pretty much just a filler chapter, but hey, at least we're finally getting to the long-term conflict and whatnot. And, yes, I know I promised that I wouldn't hurt Sherlock anymore, but I also wanted an actual main plot thing and this is kind of what happened. I hope you all enjoy and be prepared for darkness. Your reviews are the reason why I write for hours on end and stay up till one a.m. when I could be sleeping. Oh, and something that I've failed to mention up until now: I am my own beta, so if there are any mistakes, it's only because I'm tired. *Huggles*