I am going to make it through this year if it kills me.
Chapter Four:
John dropped the ball onto the grass. It landed with a damp plop on the soggy ground and didn't budge. The entire field was still drenched from the torrential rain they'd had a few nights before.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, scooping it up and walking across to have a look at the goal.
He paused at the edge of a large puddle that had formed in a shallow ditch in the centre of it. He skirted around it, muttering profanities under his breath.
For a school that claimed to value its sporting teams so highly, they didn't seem quite dedicated enough to want to invest in an indoor gymnasium where they could practice when it rained. Which happened often enough to be inconvenient.
John dropped the ball and kicked it hard towards the goal. Water and mud sprayed upwards, hitting him squarely in the face. The ball hit the post of the goal and sprang off in the opposite direction. John stared at it, fighting the urge to swear loudly.
He wiped the muck off his cheeks and glanced back towards the school. The other boys would be arriving in another five minutes or so. John liked to arrive early and warm up. It gave him a few moments to himself.
He sighed and squatted down to stretch. The other boys seemed to think stretching was a bit of joke, but they were smiling on the other side of their faces when they got a massive cramp. John rolled his eyes to himself.
He straightened up, squinting towards the stairs. He thought he saw a flash of red. A moment later, there was a distant flash of yellow hair. Well, that would be Marty. By the look of the girth and height of the person behind him, Billy was with him.
John turned away and stared across to the other side of the pitch. The clouds were so thick it looked like the sky had been dyed grey. There were puddles of water pooling in grassy potholes all across the field.
It had been a week and he hadn't attempted to talk to Sherlock again. They had to begin their assignment in a few days, if they had any chance of getting it done by the deadline. Half of him was tempted to find him and make him work as a team. He'd probably try and complete the entire thing by himself if John didn't.
He couldn't understand why Sherlock disliked him so intensely. He was the only person in the school who he felt, perhaps a little presumptuously, didn't deserve Sherlock's antipathy. But Sherlock probably thought it was pretty rich of John to want to be all matey with him, after he had sat back and let his friends lay into him all year.
"Hey, captain! What's with the face, you fucking pouf!"
He watched with a forced grin as Marty led the team towards him, pretending to hump Billy from behind while the others laughed like it was the greatest piece of comedy ever performed.
"You're late," John retorted, tossing the ball at Marty who effortlessly caught it.
"Ooooh!" he crowed. "Sorry, mum. Wanna cook my breakfast and make my bed too?"
"Just shut the fuck up and stretch," John said, glowering along the row of them. He paused at Billy. "Where are your shin guards, Billy?"
"Lost 'em," Billy replied indifferently.
"And what are you going to do if someone lobs a well-aimed kick at your shin with these?" John lifted his foot and jerked his head at the studded sole of his football boot.
"I'll rip their fucking head off," Billy growled, staring around threateningly at the other boys.
"Yeah, if you can figure out which end is which," Marty quipped.
The boys sniggered. Billy gave him the finger.
John sighed and went across to the goal. "Hurry up and get in a line. We need to practice working in wet conditions. If the first game is anything like this, we can't afford to be making stupid mistakes. Billy, you first!"
An hour later, covered in mud and soaked to the bone, the team made their way back towards the school. John stayed behind under the pretence of retying his boot. He waited until they had reached the stairs and then straightened up with a sigh.
It hadn't been a bad practice. They were good. They were all extremely good. They wouldn't have been in Redverse if they hadn't been, but they all played with such an air of arrogant, careless indifference. They knew they were going to slaughter the other teams no matter how badly they played. They had never had to work for a victory in their lives. It made John's stomach turn.
He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair. It was like straw from the gentle drizzle which had started to fall while they'd been practicing. His uniform was soaked too. He gave a shiver and plucked the ball from its place in the mud.
This would be his life for the next thirteen weeks until the holidays. Three nights of practices a week, games on Friday afternoons and extra practices when needed. He could hardly imagine how he was going to finish all of his school work at the same time. He supposed no one really cared if he finished it or not. It wasn't like he was there to get an education...
He headed towards the changing rooms, praying that the other boys had bypassed showers and gone straight to the cafeteria for dinner.
As he had hoped, it was completely empty. He undressed and stepped into the nearest shower, tugging the plastic curtain across. The shower stank of wet dog. He hurriedly turned on the hot water, his naked form shivering violently.
And on top of everything, he was supposed to be doing Sherlock a favour and it was all being thrown back in his face.
"Ugh," he groaned, closing his eyes.
He definitely shouldn't have been thinking about it like that. It wasn't as if Sherlock had asked him to do this for him-
There was a dull thud outside the shower. John jolted in fright, almost losing his balance on the slippery tiles. It sounded like someone had collided with the bench that ran along the middle of the changing rooms.
"Who is it?" he snapped suspiciously, wondering if Marty had decided to swipe his clothes and stick them in a bush somewhere.
Someone cleared their throat in a distinctly unMartylike fashion. "Sorry, I was just..."
John's eyes widened. It was Sherlock.
"Hey! Don't run off!" he said hurriedly, sticking his head around the curtain.
Sherlock hesitated in the doorway and turned towards him. He looked very pink in the face. His eyes widened slightly as he took in John's dishevelled appearance.
"I'll be out in a couple of minutes," John said, panting a little from the hot water. "You're here about the assignment, right?"
"Right," Sherlock said, going, if possible, redder. "Sorry... I should have called out or something. Hester said you'd be down here."
"Hester? Oh, right, Marty," John said, surprised that Sherlock and Marty were on speaking terms. "Well, you can wait outside if you want."
Sherlock didn't need telling twice, he was gone before the words were even out of John's mouth. John shrugged and ducked back under the water.
Sherlock really was odd. One moment he was basically telling John to fuck off and the next he was specifically seeking him out and getting all bashful about it. It wasn't like John was truly angry at him for being such a jerk the week before. He didn't expect an apology or anything.
He hastily got out and dressed back into his school uniform, stuffing his wet football kit into his bag.
He found Sherlock waiting for him by the football field stairs. He turned when John emerged. He looked extremely slim and tall in the fitted school jumper and trousers.
John glanced down. He raised his eyebrows at the white rounded converse shoes peeking out from underneath Sherlock's trousers. He was fairly certain those weren't school regulation.
"So," he said, when Sherlock seemed unlikely to break the awkward silence that immediately settled on them. "The assignment?"
"Oh." Sherlock frowned, as though it had been the last thing on his mind. "Do you want to write a play?"
John hadn't even considered what they would do for their assignment, so he wasn't really in a position to say no. "Yeah I'm okay with that," he replied. Sherlock was staring past him to the school. John followed his gaze, a little peeved that Sherlock couldn't keep his attention on him for longer than a couple of minutes. "What sort of play?"
Sherlock looked at him, his sharp eyes veiled. "Mind if I smoke?"
John stared. "Uh... sure."
He watched Sherlock pluck a cigarette from his pocket and balance it between his lips. He took a lighter from his jumper pocket. He easily lit it and took a brief drag. The scent of it swirled up through the cold air. It smelt pungent and familiar.
"Since when do you smoke?" John asked, not sure whether he felt surprised by this small act of rebellion. Sherlock would certainly have been suspended if he'd been caught.
Sherlock looked at him expressionlessly. "Why do you care?"
John shrugged. "I don't," he replied coolly. "I was just curious."
"We could write a murder mystery," Sherlock said abruptly.
John was somehow unsurprised by his suggestion. "Couldn't that be a bit difficult? I mean... murder mysteries have to be complicated."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Have you never seen an episode of Miss Marple?" he quipped. "It only seems complicated because they introduce so many decoys and minor characters. In reality it's pathetically simple."
"Do you watch a lot of Miss Marple then?" John smiled wanly.
Sherlock sent him a withering look. "Look, leave the murder to me. You can work out the characters. People are not my..." He paused. "Area of expertise."
You don't say, John thought.
"When do you want to start work on it?" he asked.
Sherlock sent him a look that warned him expressly not to push his luck and took another drag of his cigarette. John found the manner in which he could suck the smoke in and then release it in slow, elegant streams fascinating. It was almost like an art.
"Those will kill you," he remarked.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "So will second-hand smoke."
"Touché," John said. "Well, maybe we could meet in my room tomorrow after school and begin work?"
"Wouldn't a classroom be more appropriate?" Sherlock said sharply.
"Fine," John said, taken aback. "Look, I'm not trying to interfere in your life. I just want to get a good mark for this."
Sherlock studied his face in a distinctly distrustful manner. "Alright," he said, not sounding like he believed him. "Well, you better get back to dinner. I'm sure your team mates will be wondering where you got to."
There was only the slightest and almost undetectable element of bitterness to Sherlock's voice. John wished he could ask Sherlock to eat dinner at his table, but he could only imagine how Marty and Billy would react if he did.
"See you tomorrow then," he said grudgingly.
"Bye," Sherlock replied shortly, dropping the cigarette onto the cement and grinding it with the toe of his converse sneaker.
John turned and headed back up to the main school building, more than part of him regretting leaving Sherlock standing there in the cold alone.
...
Sherlock waited until John's figure had disappeared and then crouched down where he was, groaning into his hands. Of all the stupid things he had done, this was definitely the worst.
He should have known better than to trust himself in John's company, but a week of starving himself of thinking about John or being close to John or even looking at John had been torture. The dreams had persisted but they had become vaguer and less passionate as the image of John's face became fainter in his imagination.
He just hoped that the assignment would prove to be a useful cover for his depravities, if nothing else.
Though it had almost been his undoing. Those bloody changing rooms...
Sherlock twisted around and stretched his legs down against the stairs, gazing down to the deserted field. It was beginning to get dark. The sun was about to disappear behind the thick curtain of trees that cradled Redverse to the south.
He would have called out as soon as he'd blundered into the changing rooms, but when he'd heard the shower running and seen the clothes pooled underneath the bench and realised he was within ten feet of a very nude and vulnerable John Watson, he had lost control of his tongue.
It wasn't like he could see anything. The shower curtain was a revolting shade of yellow and completely filthy. He hadn't betted on John sticking his head out though.
Sherlock closed his eyes, sliding a hand gently between his thighs.
John was just perfect when he was like that. Dishevelled and flushed and breathing a little heavily from the heat. He had no idea just how perfect he was. If he had, he wouldn't have tortured Sherlock so viciously.
Sherlock wished he could delude himself and say that John had done it on purpose and his attempts to befriend him were really a cover for deep-seated lust, but he was no fool. No, John was interested by him. He was confused by him. He didn't feel anything else for him.
He could feel himself getting stiff, despite the cold and the damp. John always served to burn him up, no matter how desolate his surroundings. He couldn't touch himself out here. Though it was as empty as a graveyard, there was something obscene about touching himself in a public place.
He straightened up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. He headed back towards the hulking ugliness of the school, wishing he could just walk down the stairs and across the field and over the boundary fence and never look back.
Unfortunately, he had a play to write. It was a bit unkind of him to suggest a murder mystery. John wasn't yet fully aware of how deep his interest in murder ran. He had read more books on forensic science and criminal psychology than the boys of Redverse had had wet dreams.
Besides the books, which could only tell him so much anyway, he had noticed at a young age that he seemed to have rather a knack for noticing things. For want of a better word. It was difficult to explain. He couldn't quite explain it himself, though he knew that his classmates had had more than a little experience with his "observations". He assumed that he just made better use of his eyes than the average person.
He knew where the boys had been partying on the weekend from the smell of their clothes and the sorts of alcohol they had consumed. If it was the pub they stank of cigarette smoke, beer and sweat, if it was a club they smelt of women's perfume and the sticky, sickly smell of cocktails. He could tell when they were lying, when they were uncomfortable. He knew what their backgrounds were, why they acted how they acted. He knew which were straight and which were gay.
There seemed to be a fallacy that the loudest and most obnoxious bully was the gay one, but it was usually the one who didn't want to draw attention to himself and managed to blend in. Marty Hester was certainly not gay. He was as straight as he was a waste of human skin.
He reached the cafeteria and found it mercilessly uncrowded. He didn't care one way or another what the boys said about him but it was boring and annoying to have to constantly listen to their uninspired taunts.
He spotted John in the far corner with Marty Hester and decided to sit along the opposite wall. He collected his plate of meat lasagne and took a seat facing the cafeteria, just so he could have the guilty pleasure of watching John from afar.
He didn't look like he was speaking, just listening to Marty while he ranted animatedly about something, in between shovelling lasagne in his mouth.
He had been sitting there for a while in peaceful silence, staring absently at John's tiny figure on the opposite end of the cafeteria and toying disinterestedly with his lasagne, when James Anderson and his own group of cronies from the year below passed his table.
Sherlock inwardly sighed.
"Alone again, Holmes?" Anderson sneered, coming to a halt opposite him and almost obscuring his view of John.
Sherlock irritably tightened his grip on his fork.
Anderson was a small, pale, ratty little milksop and Sherlock hardly knew how he had conned people into accepting his friendship. He seemed to have little interest in anything but himself.
"Come to congratulate me on the Academic Achievement award, have you?" Sherlock replied coolly. "How many years in a row would that make it? Come now, Anderson. I know your Maths isn't as bad as your English abilities."
He had to glance at Anderson, just for the pleasure of seeing his face contort with indignation. All four years Anderson had been at the school he had been runner up to Sherlock for the Academic Achievement award, the award given to the top performing student in the school. Sherlock's satisfaction was doubled by the fact that he attained it so effortlessly, something that clearly infuriated Anderson, whose desperate academic attempts were made to look average by comparison.
"Well, I hope that your stupid award makes up for your being such a pathetic little loner," Anderson spat and pushed his way through the gaggle of onlookers.
Sherlock watched him go with amusement. Predictable Anderson.
He returned to his dinner. Across the cafeteria, John got up from his table and headed for the door with Marty. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a pang of loathing towards Anderson for interrupting him and snatching precious minutes from him when he could have been watching John.
He watched John until he was out of sight and put down his fork. Suddenly he didn't feel particularly hungry.
...
John managed to shake Marty off at the door of his room and found it mercifully empty. Billy must have been in the common room along the hall with the others. He kicked off his school shoes and fell heavily onto his bed.
Marty had thought it a great joke to send Sherlock down to the changing rooms while John had been showering. He had recounted his latest piece of comic genius in detail through dinner and John had had to force his laughs. In truth he didn't see the humour in it at all.
He didn't believe all the crap Marty came up with about Sherlock spying on them in the showers. Even if it was true, it didn't make Sherlock any worse than Marty. Marty was a sex-crazed deviant compared to Sherlock. Some of the things he said made John's skin crawl.
It was all just words to them. What was so particularly awful about calling someone a "fag"? How did it differ from calling them a dickhead or a douchebag?
But maybe that was why it was so damn infuriating. They treated being gay like it was something that deserved to be branded and punished. So Sherlock was gay. It didn't mean anything. He was still a frighteningly intelligent... and slightly odd young man. That wouldn't change whether he liked boys or girls or both or neither.
John sunk down onto his back and tried to shut the agitating thoughts out of his mind. Sherlock's figure was haunting his thoughts. In his mind's eye he could see that pale, almost ghostlike hand holding that cigarette to his lips and the smoke curling up around him like fog. He had looked so aged standing there. He had looked as though he had seen so much hardship in his brief life. And yet none of it physically showed on his face. It was just suggested by the darkness in his eyes and he calm way he drank in the smoke from his cigarette.
John turned his head away to the wall, wishing he could block out the noise from the corridors; the endless cacophony of voices and feet thumping against the carpet and hands hitting against the walls.
The door flew open and smashed against the wall. John jolted upright.
Of course it was just Billy, staggering through the door and doubled over with laughter. When he had sufficiently calmed down, John managed to decipher amongst the hysterical sniggering that someone (John assumed that by "someone", he meant Marty) had dacked Ben in the middle of the hallway when he'd been making his way from the bathroom with just his towel on.
Outside, Ben's furious profanities filled the hallway. Billy seemed to lose complete control of himself again and had to lean against the doorway to support himself.
John rolled his eyes and turned back on his side.
End of Chapter Four