Now watch what you say or they'll be calling you a radical. Liberal, fanatical, criminal.
Chapter Two:
"Hey, captain," Marty drawled, as John fell into the seat beside him. "You were almost late there. Couldn't have that taint on Redverse's golden boy, could we?"
John glanced at the clock. There was still three minutes to go until the bell, but he had cut it pretty close for his first day back. A letter from his father had arrived. He hadn't expected one so soon. Letters from home always seemed to make him late.
"Gee, Marty. I'm so touched you care," he quipped.
Marty slapped his shoulder with a snigger. "So did you have a good summer, kickstand?"
Marty Hester was one of the best players on the Redverse football team. And a complete and utter wanker. Even John could admit that, and he liked him. He was very good-looking and was clearly aware of it, and had all the advantages of height that John didn't.
"As good as a summer can be when you're stuck in Southampton," John said drily. "What about you?"
Marty flashed him a smug sideways glance. "Oh, you know," he said. "Got so much pussy I can hardly think str-"
He broke off, his eyes swivelling sharply towards the door. John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes had appeared, with what looked like half the library in his bag.
One the other side of Marty, Billy gave a loud, affected cough. "Faggot."
There were sniggers. A classroom of eyes followed the slender figure as he took his usual seat in the front row. John stared at him. He wished he knew his secret for maintaining such perfect indifference in the face of so much hostility.
"Fuck, I hate that kid," growled Marty, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. "You can't speak without him making some smart arse comment. He was such a fucking douche in history last year." He adopted an exaggeratedly plummy accent that sounded nothing like Sherlock. "Clearly Marty Hester has been wanking off to dirty magazines because the fourth button of his shirt is undone, he has a heightened colour to his cheeks and the fly of his trousers is partly undone." He rolled his eyes. "Tosser."
Billy guffawed. John forced a smile. "Yeah, kinda weird."
"Weird? It's fucking messed up," Marty growled, stabbing a hole in the varnished surface of his desk with a ballpoint pen. "You know he probably spies on us or something. When we're wanking off or in the shower. He's such a fucking shirt-lifter."
John's body temperature rose uncomfortably where he sat. He averted his eyes and hoped desperately that he hadn't gone red. Luckily, Billy's and Marty's attention was still firmly on Sherlock.
John ventured to glance over at him. He was already buried in a book, his head down and his shoulders hunched, as though he was trying to turn in on himself and away from his classmates. John couldn't blame him.
"Morning, students," their home class teacher Mr. Hurst burst through the door, a mug of tea balancing hazardously on an armful of folders. He slammed it down onto the desk and pushed his longish, greasy hair back."Morning, morning, morning. Yes, I know. It's exciting. We're back at school."
Mr. Hurst was about twenty-eight and had the cynical, sharp-tongued personality of a newly graduated university student. It was a mystery to John how he had ended up in the bleak confines of Redverse School for Boys. He looked like he belonged in an art college somewhere.
"Shut up!" he bawled, when the boys continued to talk as loudly as ever.
They all turned to peer sheepishly at him. "Sorry, sir-"
"Yeah, yeah. Well, you will be," he muttered, sitting at his desk and flipping open the blue roll folder.
There were a few titters. The boys seemed to tolerate Hurst better than many of the other teachers.
"Alright... let's start off the year wiiith..." he ran his pen down the page. "Announcements, shall we? First up... please remember that the third floor toilets in B block are out of order and will be thus for another week. And if that wasn't fascinating enough, the cafeteria now sells soy milk and skim milk."
John laughed in spite of himself. He turned to see whether Sherlock was laughing, but he was watching Hurst with a calculating and markedly unamused expression. John sometimes wondered if he was able to show any shred of emotion at all.
"Alright," Hurst snapped the file shut and tugged out a slip of paper from underneath it. "Let's see who I'm saddled with this year... Thomas Adler?"
John sunk lower in his chair and felt his eyes almost unconsciously drift towards the window. The usual chorus of "heres" and "yeahs" began their familiar rhythm. Being a 'w' meant that John had become used to being the grand finale.
"Sherlock Holmes?" Hurst's voice contained an almost audible wince. The teachers couldn't have missed Sherlock's torment, but they chose to ignore it. They probably didn't blame the boys for being at odds with Sherlock. He didn't exactly endear himself to people.
"Present," Sherlock replied, now firmly engaged in his book again.
"Present," Marty mimicked.
As usual, the words "and lastly, John Watson" was everybody's cue that they could go. Marty and Billy started to move towards the door before Hurst had even dismissed them.
"Alright, you can go," Hurst said, casting a glance around them in a partly amused, partly exasperated fashion.
Sherlock slid his book into his bag. He paused at Hurst's desk on his way to the door. "Sir, you still have the price tag on that shirt."
And with that, he disappeared.
John watched Hurst rip the tag off grumbling and stuff it in his pocket.
"Coming, golden boy?" Marty called impatiently from the door.
John hurriedly grabbed his bag and went after them.
...
He was eating lunch at his usual table with Marty, Billy and another footballer Ben Greer when the secretary appeared. As the only woman in a school of hormone-crazed boys she often attracted a lot of attention. She was a short, brassy blonde woman who wore an odd shade of blue eye-shadow and vaguely garish floral dresses.
She smiled toothily at the boys. Marty leered at her.
"Hey boys," she said in a voice that made John's stomach turn. She fixed her eyes on him. "Phone call for you, honey."
John didn't move. "Phone call?" he said blankly.
"You're John Watson, right?" she said, arching a thin eyebrow.
"Yeah," he said, standing and dropping his half-eaten tuna sandwich onto his tray.
"It's probably his girlfriend," Ben quipped with a grin. "I've heard she's a real babe. Probably couldn't face all those long months without him. Needs a bit of phone action to sustain her."
Marty sniggered. "Yeah, mate. Don't be stingy with the details. I wanna hear all about how she's all wet for you-"
"Don't be such a cunt," John snapped, ramming his bag into Marty's shoulder as he passed him.
"Ouch!" Marty burst out. "It was a joke, you tosser!"
"Greedy prick! At least let us see a nude photo or something!" Ben yelled after him.
John rolled his eyes and followed the receptionist down the hall and across the courtyard to the administration office. The phone was sitting off the hook on top of the desk.
John grabbed it and put it to his ear. "Hello?"
"John! It's me."
John's heart plummeted. "Dad?"
"Yeah, mate. I just wanted to make sure you got the letter."
He sounded hurried, like he was calling from the phone in his office at work. John couldn't believe he was so cheap he wasn't even going to risk adding a few pounds to their phone bill to call him.
"Yeah, dad. I got it," he replied, checking his watch. "Look, I have to go to class in a minute."
"I know, I know," his dad said hastily. "I just wanted to make sure... you know... that you know your mother and I are... Well, we're counting on you, son. This could be a big start of something, Johnny. If you get spotted by a talent scout-"
"That's a pretty big "if", Dad," John said in a low voice.
"Look, John," his father's voice was stern now. "There's always time to get a degree, go to uni when you're older but you're not always going to be young and fit. Keep your head in the game and you could go places!"
"Yeah," John said bluntly. "I know. I have to go, Dad. The bell's about to go."
He didn't wait for his dad to reply. He hung up and pushed the phone back towards the receptionist.
"Thanks," he said. "Look, in future. Can you tell my dad I'm in class if he calls?"
"Sure thing, sweetie," she replied, eyeing him questioningly.
He left her, but didn't go back to the cafeteria. There was no way he was going back to lunch now. He couldn't face his friends' stupid questions. He was so angry he had to stop and compose himself by the drinking fountains.
"Who the fuck does he think he is?" he growled, staring down into the grimy basin of the bubbler. "Fucking calling me at school. Jesus."
He jerked in surprise as he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Sherlock Holmes's unmistakeably lithe figure passing along the footpath towards C block where they had English next. John watched him until he was out of sight, wondering if he had heard his outburst.
He waited until he was certain that Sherlock was well and truly gone and then picked up his bag and followed him.
He barged through the doors of C block and straight into Sherlock who was making his way back out with an armful of textbooks. He let out a surprised cry and stumbled backwards, dropping all of them into a pile.
"Watch where you're going!" he snapped, not looking up as he scurried to retrieve them.
"I'm sorry," John said, hurrying to help him. Sherlock went visibly rigid and slowly looked up at him. He didn't seem to have realised who had ploughed into him. His stern slate coloured eyes studied John's face.
John flushed and held out a book. "Here."
Sherlock jerked slightly and snatched it back without comment. He shoved the books into his bag and straightened with a small cough. John stood up as well, staring at Sherlock's face with a mixture of exasperation and perplexity. The boy confused him no end.
The sharp, pale lines of his face were almost impish at this close proximity. He had an arch, shrewd look about him.
"What are you staring at?" Sherlock barked, taking a step back.
John coloured. "Uh nothing," he stammered. He probably should have insulted him or something, but he couldn't bring himself to. "Sorry."
John hurriedly pushed past him. He didn't look back, though he had the distinct feeling that Sherlock was watching him. He turned the corner and slumped against the wall with a sigh. Sherlock had every right to be suspicious. Not a single boy in the whole of Redverse had ever extended their hand in friendship to him. If John did, he'd probably think it was some sort of trick.
John slid down the wall and rested his head in his hands.
"Watson?"
He jerked upright. "Sorry?"
It was Hurst. He raised his eyebrows at him. "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you," he said archly, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other. He tilted his head slightly, seeming almost to be sizing John up. "Could I have a word with you?"
John stared. "Yeah, okay."
He followed him into his classroom across the hall. Hurst had them for English, as well as home class. He seemed to have read every book ever written and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of dystopian fiction, especially George Orwell.
He sat behind his desk and gestured for John to sit. "I just wanted to talk to you about an assignment we've got coming up."
"Oh, right," John said hurriedly, dropping into a seat in the front row. "I know my grades were ordinary last year, but I do really want to do better in English and I think that-"
Hurst waved a hand dismissively. "That's fine. I know football takes up a lot of your time. I'm sure you'll balance all of your responsibilities. That's not a problem."
"Oh, yeah," John said, deflating slightly.
Hurst was silent for a minute. He pushed his thin spectacles up his nose, which immediately slid back down again. "Look," he said finally, "I know this might be a bit inconvenient, but I was wondering whether you might do me a favour."
"Oh," John said, taken aback, "I dunno... What it is?"
Hurst pressed his fingers together with a slight grimace. "Well, we have a group assignment coming up. It's a big 'un. You'll be split into pairs and asked to write a short piece of fiction, probably a play or a short story. Something of that nature." He shrugged, as though he hadn't read through the criteria sheet himself. "But I was thinking... maybe you wouldn't mind if I paired you with Sherlock Holmes?"
He pulled a face as though he anticipated John would mind very much so.
John stared at him. "Why would I mind?"
Hurst raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Well, that was easier than I thought. I had somewhat gathered that the general sentiment is that he's..." He gestured vaguely. "Well, I'm sure you've noticed."
"Yeah, I think it'd be difficult to miss it," John said drily.
He would have liked to comment on just how obvious it must have been to the teachers what Sherlock was going through, but he didn't suppose he was in any position to be all high and mighty about it. He wasn't exactly Robin Hood, standing up for the oppressed and downtrodden. Certainly not Holmes.
"Why me?" he asked, fighting with a sudden overwhelming sense of self-disgust.
"Well, you've always seemed far more tolerant of him than anyone else," Hurst replied, preoccupied with scribbling something down in his teacher's diary. "I just wanted to avoid too many fireworks. You seem to have an uncanny gift of making people like you."
If nothing else, John thought bitterly.
"Class is starting in a few minutes," Hurst said, glancing up at him. "You might as well hang around."
"Yes, sir," John mumbled, he tugged his bag onto his shoulder and went out to deposit it on the bag racks.
A few boys were beginning to appear. He didn't see Marty, Billy or Ben among them, for which he was thankful. He wasn't looking forward to their comments concerning his "mysterious" phone call.
Sherlock appeared promptly as always, his canvas backpack hanging off one shoulder. John glanced at him as he passed him and Sherlock's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than what felt natural.
John stared after him, wondering whether now the chance to help him had come he would really have the guts to do it.
End of Chapter Two