They say these days are the best we got. What a tragic thought.
Chapter Three:
Sherlock had often pondered on the fates of his classmates. Some more than others. They all betrayed so much of themselves in the way they acted and spoke, even the way they dressed. The useful thing about being a loner and an outcast was having a remarkable amount of time to observe those on the other side of the 'glass', so to speak. Those who fit into the social scale more comfortably than he did.
He cast a sideways glance to where John Watson was seated, flanked on one side by a useless lump of flesh called Billy Pip and on the other by a psychopathic coxcomb, Marty Hester. Billy was so dense Sherlock was surprised he could walk and form words at the same time. Marty Hester had all the hallmarks of a future violent offender. Aggressive, narcissistic and far too fond of punishing those weaker than him.
Sherlock had no doubt that Hester would find himself in prison before he was thirty. As for Billy, well, some menial and repetitive job would be found for him. Something that not even he could screw up.
Sherlock relished the thought of their eventual failure. But what about John Watson? What would be his fate?
Sherlock frowned to himself and looked away, not keen to be caught staring. The brief "moment" (and he used the word with intense scepticism) they had shared in the corridor had thrown his well-ordered thoughts into disarray. He hadn't expected John to come barging through those doors and then stare at him with those... insufferable blue eyes. Being so close to him was unbearable. He'd rather go a round with Billy and Marty together than spend another minute that close to John. The threat of destruction seemed far too imminent when he was around.
He didn't trust his body not to betray him. He'd always had better control over his mind than his body. His thoughts were well-ordered, consistent and calculated. His body was less servile. He just hoped that he had avoided going bright red like John had. Though he knew it was for an entirely different reason. John being the blustery little do-gooder he was.
"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes! Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"
Hurst's exasperated voice broke into his thoughts like an icepick. He jerked upright, blinking at him without the foggiest idea of what he had asked him. "Sorry, sir?"
There was the predictable sound of contemptuous laughter from his classmates.
"Daydreaming about his boyfriend," Marty simpered, in his usual predictability.
Sherlock had to fight a smile at how close to being accurate Marty actually was. It almost made him laugh at how heavily Marty relied on Sherlock's sexuality to mock him. He didn't know whether they truly knew he was gay or just suspected it or just thought it was the worst insult they could throw at him. If it was the latter reason, they were more pathetic than he had thought.
"Try to pay attention," Hurst bristled, pushing his ugly glasses higher up the thin slant of his nose. "I know it's the first day back but this year is important."
There was a general murmur of dubiety that Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear. Hurst rolled his eyes, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Yeah, yeah. Save it for Principal Harvey," he said, leaning on the edge of his desk. "There are three pieces of assessment this year. An in-class essay on Macbeth-"
A widespread chorus of groans erupted.
"Well, it was either that or A Midsummer Night's Dream," he said, throwing his hands up. "At least there's murder in this one. Then you'll do an oral on discourses in the media and advertising. We do a big chunk on that so I expect you to make it detailed andrelevant. No YouTube videos please." He paused, glancing down at the slip of paper hanging limply from his hand. "The third piece of assessment is perhaps the most major one you'll have for English."
He licked his lips and Sherlock realised with a pang of confusion that he was nervous. Nervous? About a piece of assessment they had to complete? Odd.
"You'll be split into pairs," he said finally, seeming to collect himself again.
"Oh, what..." Marty muttered audibly, pausing for a moment from his usual activity of vandalizing all his school books. "What a fucking rip."
"Language, Hester," Hurst said sharply. "Besides, this is a major and extremely important piece of assessment and you need to start thinking seriously about what you and your partner will create. It can be a short novel, a play script, an epic poem or whatever else you dream up-"
"Who do we pair with?" someone demanded, asking the question that had been burning in Sherlock's mind.
He didn't do "pairs". He didn't do "teams". He didn't do "dual assessments". He worked alone. Always alone.
"Your pairs have been predetermined," Hurst said, waggling the slip of paper in his hand. "I think you-"
His next words were drowned out by protests and cries of disbelief.
"Shut up!" Hurst barked, his glasses flashing angrily. "That's enough! Stop carrying on like a group of bloody primary school children!"
"Oh come on!" Billy Pip burst out, practically leaping out of his seat with indignation. "This is bullshit, sir!"
"Language," Hurst said wearily. "Look, it wasn't my idea but I can't say that I think it's a bad one. You can't just stick with the same people all the time. That's not how life works."
Speak for yourself, Sherlock thought archly.
The protests died down to faint grumblings. Sherlock could feel eyes darting in his direction, all of them begging silently that it wouldn't be them who was saddled with him. Well, he was hardly ecstatic about it either.
Hurst sent them one last withering look and began to read the names off the slip of paper. Sherlock listened half-heartedly, waiting for his name to be announced next to Billy Pip's or, worse still, Marty Hester's. At least he could just sit Billy in the corner and get it done himself if worst came to worst, Marty would be an absolute and undeniable nightmare to work with,
But Billy Pip's name was read out alongside some other idiot footballer's and Marty Hester's was too. Sherlock frowned at Hurst. This was far too much uncharacteristic good luck for him. Had fate forgotten who he was?
"Sherlock Holmes-"
Hurst had to pause to quieten the wave of sneers and groans which were immediately cued.
"Quiet! For God's sake, have some class. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."
Sherlock went rigid in his seat.
"Hahaha!" Marty crowed gleefully, giving John a shove. "Tough luck, mate!"
John smirked and just shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock stared numbly at him.
He almost wished he had been paired with Marty Hester. This was a hundred times worse than anything he could have anticipated. He felt sick to his stomach.
He didn't hear a word of the rest of the lesson. Hurst dismissed them some twenty or so minutes later and Sherlock waited in his desk for everyone to get out.
Billy slapped him painfully hard on the back as he passed him and grinned in his face. "You better take good care of our golden boy, faggot."
"Cut it out," John mumbled, shoving Billy out of the way.
Sherlock stared after him, his heart in his throat. He waited until they had disappeared and then approached Hurst's desk. Hurst glanced up, seeming unsurprised to see him.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" he said, folding his hands in front of him.
"I want a new partner," Sherlock said bluntly, never one to mince words.
Hurst sighed. "The pairs are finalized, Sherlock. I thought you'd be pleased. John is a nice boy."
Too nice, Sherlock thought drily.
"Why can't I just work alone?" Sherlock snapped desperately.
"That's not an option," Hurst replied shortly. "I have to get to a staff meeting, Sherlock." He stood up and slid a pile of folders into his leather satchel. "At least make an effort with John. He's a good sort. Who knows, you might like it."
Sherlock could have winced at the unintentional double meaning in Hurst's words. He rolled his eyes and stalked out.
And found John waiting for him.
"What do you want?" he barked, deciding self-preservation was now his main goal.
John looked startled by his abruptness. "I... was just..." His blue eyes widened in an infuriatingly endearing manner. "I just wanted to check that you're okay... you know... working with me."
Sherlock huffed. "Well, I don't seem to have a choice."
John visibly deflated. "Oh... I suppose not."
Sherlock inwardly sighed. "Look, let's just keep it professional. I'm a homo freak and you're everybody's favourite sporting hero. It's hardly a match made in heaven."
John shrugged. "Whatever," he said coolly, clearly not pleased that he had been slapped across the face with his own olive branch. "I'll see you tomorrow then."
He heaved his bag onto his shoulder and disappeared down the hallway. Sherlock watched him go with a pained expression.
He didn't know how he was going to spend every single day in John's company without doing something drastic. He was going to crack and make a complete idiot of himself. And then John would hate him.
He groaned into his hands. This was all so messed up.
...
Sherlock gave a violent jolt and jerked upright. Successfully smashing his head against the bars of the bed as he did.
"Ah! Bloody hell!"
He clutched the back of his skull, blinking confusedly into the darkness. A crack of yellowy light from under the door was glowing like an orb across the carpet. He screwed up his eyes, massaging the sore spot on the back of his head.
The covers were twisted around his lower half and his legs were damp with sweat. He shifted gingerly where he was, not daring to move too much. If he moved, there was a chance he'd feel something else beneath the covers and he didn't think he could take it... again.
The remnants of the dream were uncomfortably vivid. Sometimes they weren't. But this one he could remember quite clearly. Who knew that his subconscious was so dirty?
He bit his lip. John would not be pleased if he knew how Sherlock treated him in his dreams. But John didn't know how fucking hard it was to resist him when he was begging for Sherlock to touch him and do... unspeakable things to him.
"Fuck," Sherlock winced.
Yes, there it was. The gooey, warm mess between his legs. And everywhere else.
He slumped against his pillows with a groan. Of all the people in the universe who this could happen to, why the hell him?
He knew what had brought it on. Today's little episode in the corridor. Anything approaching contact with John and his body went haywire with hormonal desire. He was fairly certain that he had chafing on the palm of his hand from the amount of times he had wanked off since being back at school. It had only been a couple of days and he felt starved with longing.
He toppled out of bed and limped across to his chest of drawers. He hurriedly changed into a clean pair of pyjamas and tossed the disgusting, soiled pair in the corner. He went to his bed and ripped back the covers but, luckily, there didn't seem to be any tell-tale stains on the sheets.
"Small bloody mercies," he grumbled, clambering back into bed and tucking his hands behind his head.
When he was away from John and this blasted school he was an entirely different person. He became the person that he wished he could be all of the time. He had never had a problem restraining his outward emotions but inwardly he still didn't know how to control them.
His brother Mycroft, a master of emotional paralysis, prescribed solitude and a healthy disdain of everyone and everything around him. Sherlock tried. He really did. But blue eyes and blonde hair kept forcing themselves into his mind's eye. And that damned smile.
"Fuck it," he moaned, covering his face with his hands.
And what was he going to do when morning came and he was forced into a classroom with John? He would turn in a slobbering, horny animal. John would be safer far, far away from him.
Of course his brain delighted in telling him just how badly he could screw this up. What about if he made a complete idiot of himself? What about if he blurted out what he felt about John? What about if he... Oh God. Please no. Not that. He stared distrustfully at the spread of his legs underneath the covers. The chances of him getting a flaming hard-on if he was anywhere near John seemed excruciatingly likely as he lay there, with the dream still bubbling heatedly at the back of his mind.
He threw the covers back and began to pace up and down his room, unable to stay still when the torturous thoughts insisted on persisting. He ran a hand agitatedly through his damp hair. He couldn't hear anything from the rooms around his. The light in the hallway was always left on in case of emergencies, but it was probably sometime after midnight. The thought that somewhere along the hallway John Watson was fast asleep, dressed only in... probably that tiny pair of boxer-briefs Sherlock had become so acquainted with, having played that disastrous scene in the changing rooms over and over in his head some fifty million times.
He stopped short where he was. Well, that certainly wasn't helping.
He forced himself to go back to bed. The only thing for it was a good night's sleep. He needed to refresh himself, his thoughts would be more ordered in the morning. This wasn't a total disaster. After all, he could handle this better than the average panting teenage boy. Seeing as he had double the intelligence of the average panting teenage boy.
He stared at the shadows crawling across his ceiling. He still didn't trust his thoughts not to stray immediately back to dangerous territory the moment he closed his eyes. What were these useless moments of lust doing to his subconscious? How could he be at the peak of his intellectual ability if his thoughts were adulterated by such a useless vice?
He thinned his lips. He had to learn to control it. He had learnt to control hunger, thirst, fatigue, pain... emotional anguish, he could control this.
He gave a small, satisfied nod into the darkness and turned onto his side. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes.
But somehow that didn't make the struggle any easier.
Sherlock was pleased to find, on opening his eyes the following morning, that he not lapsed back into his desire fuelled dreamland and his pyjamas were clean as a whistle.
He couldn't help but feel satisfied at his body's ability to correct its own defects. Lust was certainly a defect. Especially for such an unattainable impossibility as John Watson.
He dressed, washed and ate his breakfast with the air of a determined scholar, about to set out on a dangerous but educational expedition. It was all going very nicely until roughly 8:17am when he arrived at home class and found himself face to face with saidunattainable impossibility.
"Hi." John looked infuriatingly rested. Sherlock stared down at him, the few inches that separated their heights them making every gentle curve of John's face very apparent. His lips were too pretty for a boy's.
"You're blocking my way," Sherlock replied coldly, backing away so that there was a good foot between them. Just for safety.
John didn't adopt the air of a kicked puppy as he had the day before. Sherlock rued the tiny part of himself that regretted it. Instead, he cocked his head in a challenging manner and held out a callused hand. "I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said pointedly, not shifting from his place directly in the centre of the classroom doorway. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not... not..." He faltered. "I'm not like..."
Sherlock glanced over John's shoulder to where his footballer cronies were gathered. Was John really trying to tell him that he was different from them? "Not like what?" he said harshly, the air of dislike coming more naturally to him than he had anticipated.
John went pink. Sherlock dug his nails viciously into his palms for daring to think that it was rather cute. "I think we can be civil," he said stiffly, lowering his hand.
"I'm prepared to be civil," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "But we are not friends and I don't wish to engage in some infantile game that suggests we ever will be."
John's eyes narrowed. They were incredibly dark and sharp when he was irritated. Sherlock inwardly slapped himself. He shouldn't have been noticing things like that...
"Fine," he spat, the venom clearly masking a deeper wound that Sherlock's words had caused. If Sherlock had been a different sort of boy, he would felt a thrill at John's desperation for his regard. But naturally he felt no delight at the boy's misguided earnestness. At all. "Look, you're not my dream partner either! I'm just trying to be polite. It's not like I want to do this stupid assignment with you!" John lapsed into silence, huffing.
And there we have it, Sherlock thought archly. John Watson's breaking point. Everyone had a boundary when they couldn't take rejection any longer and backpedalled into self-preservation. Some people could take more rejection than others. John was clearly the sort of boy who needed to be liked. He craved approval. Sherlock felt a sick little shiver go through him. That was not supposed to be arousing.
"I'm glad we've settled that," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Do you mind moving now?"
John stared at him in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. He didn't understand why Sherlock was shrugging off his clumsy attempts at a truce. It probably didn't even compute in his mind that Sherlock didn't want his friendship. "Fine," he said shortly.
He turned on his heel and went across to where his friends were seated. Sherlock took his usual seat at the front, ignoring their guffawing remarks as he passed them. Morons. How could John stand them?
He didn't look at John for the remainder of the class but he knew the blonde's eyes kept flickering towards him. He could sense his gaze on him. Sherlock kept his eyes forward. He felt he had handled John practically throwing himself at him rather well and he didn't need any more temptations to take advantage of the stupid idiot.
As soon as home class was over, he snatched his bag up and hurried out before John could corner him again. He escaped to the bathroom and slumped down by the sinks, sighing in frustration. It would take a few more careful shoves to get John to back off for good. He was smarted but he wasn't truly hurt. If Sherlock was good at something, it was playing to people's weaknesses.
As much as it sickened him to do it, he would have to play to John's. He couldn't risk getting close to him. It sent a miserable trickle through his body to think that he would be hurting the one person in the entire school who he thought might be worth more than the clothes on their back. It made his stomach twist with self-loathing to think that he would be punishing John for his lack of self-control.
He struggled upright and stared dully at himself in the wide, tarnished mirror that ran the length of the basins. It was difficult to see his own face past all the grime. It wasn't much of a loss. His pale, unearthly looks had never been anything he had been particularly fond of.
He splashed his face with cold water and left, feeling exhausted already by the prospect in front of him and the weight of his own guilt.
End of Chapter Three