I tremble. They're gonna eat me alive. If I stumble.

Chapter Five:

John felt he was now progressing into something that he couldn't divulge to his friends. He didn't think that they, who had no toleration of anyone who deviated from themselves in any way, would understand or appreciate his new and strange interactions with Sherlock Holmes. Since that day outside the changing rooms, they seemed to have made a wordless pact to abide each other though they may have nothing in common.

Though Sherlock continued treating him with occasional prickly suspicion, John sensed a softening in his dislike. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock had snubbed his original offer of a truce. He should have known that a boy as shrewd and intelligent as Sherlock wouldn't forgive and forget so easily. It didn't take long to realise that intellectually he was clearly light-years ahead of the rest of his year group, if not the school.

"I've written up a rough plan for the murder," Sherlock said to him on the first afternoon they met to begin work on the assignment. "It should be enough to start on."

John blinked at him. "Oh, really?" he said guiltily, thinking of how he had spent the night watching South Park reruns on his phone.

Sherlock pushed a notepad towards him. On it were a number of coloured circles, linked by thick black lines. "Subject A", "Subject B", "Subject C", "Subject D" and "Subject E" had been written beneath them.

"What's that?" John said blankly.

Sherlock snatched it back, rolling his eyes. "It's perfectly simple. Subject A is the murder victim, B is a suspect, C is the culprit. D and E are also suspects but to a lesser extent. They are the decoys present in all murder mysteries. They appear only to throw the audience or reader off the scent of the true murderer."

John stared. "I don't get it."

Sherlock sighed affectedly. "Subject A is a stage actor; it has to be the stage because it's more romantic. Audiences like romance. B is her daughter, she's a budding actress. They have been thrown together in a play. Their mutual relative C is the director-"

"Wait!" John snapped. "Why Subject A, Subject B? Why not just give them names?"

Sherlock stared at him coldly. "I thought humanization was your area of expertise."

John bristled. "Well, I didn't know you were going to go back to your room and do all of this-"

"It was nothing," Sherlock shrugged. "It only took ten minutes."

John gaped at him. "What?"

Sherlock closed the notepad. "The bottom line is that the son is the culprit but the mother is the suspect."

"Wait, wait, wait," John said, gesturing impatiently. "How could you have done that in ten minutes? It's impossible! You'd have to be a-"

"Genius?" Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly."

"Most murder plots take ages to develop," John said stubbornly.

"Most murder plots are devised by idiots who have no ability to distinguish fantasy from reality," Sherlock retorted.

John was too taken aback and slightly irked by Sherlock's complacency to reply. He didn't know whether he believed Sherlock, but at the same time he did not seem like the sort of person who would exaggerate or lie.

They had met in the empty English classroom three times since then. Sherlock had simplified the murder plot and John had begun work on naming the characters and giving them personalities. If it had been left to Sherlock they would have retained the names "Subject A" and "Subject B".

He certainly hadn't exaggerated his disinterest in people.

"It's late," John said, finally dropping his pen and sitting back in his chair. They had been working since five and it was now eleven. They had missed dinner and John was beginning to get a cramp in his hand, but he had found the writing strangely addictive and gratifying once he had managed to push past the first painful few pages. "I have to get up early tomorrow for practice and I haven't done any of my maths homework."

Sherlock grunted and straightened up as well. "Same time tomorrow then?"

"I can't," John replied, his stomach giving a sickly swirl. "It's the first game of the season."

"Oh right," Sherlock sent him a calculating look. "Good luck."

"Thanks," John said indifferently, packing away his things into his bag and standing. "But I doubt we'll need it." He paused, looking at Sherlock. "Will you be coming?"

Sherlock looked uncharacteristically surprised by the question. "Oh... I don't know," he replied at length.

John shrugged. Sherlock never came to games; he didn't see why this one would be any different.

"Will your parents be there to cheer you on?" Sherlock said archly.

"Yeah, why wouldn't they be? Why would you care?" John said defensively.

Sherlock looked at him strangely. "It was a question."

John coloured. "Yeah, sorry. It's- Never mind," he mumbled. "See you later."

He hurried out, not waiting for Sherlock to reply.

In the deserted hallway, he sighed at himself. Very smooth. He had successfully made his home life an issue. Sherlock was too clever to miss the thorns that protruded from every word whenever his parents were mentioned. He'd eventually work it out. John didn't know if he felt comfortable with Sherlock unearthing things that he had industriously spent the last two years burying.

But he was overreacting. Sherlock couldn't have gathered anything from just one sentence. He was intelligent but he wasn't that intelligent. No one could do something like that. It was impossible.

He comforted himself with that and went for a shower.

...

Clearly John had an issue with his parents. An idiot could see that.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, chewing his pencil thoughtfully.

It was hard to imagine that Redverse's golden boy could have secrets to hide, apart from the fact that he was clearly nothing like his classmates. They were ignorant, self-centred and took the same vicious pleasure in bullying others as a toddler did torturing a small animal. John was almost painfully naive and kind. It was etched in every feature of his face.

Sherlock was glad that John had halted his attempts to strike some sort of verbal agreement of friendship between them. It gave Sherlock leave to be as distant as he thought safe. The weekly meetings in the library or the classroom were both electrifying and torturous. He was only inches away from John across the table but he couldn't allow himself to touch him or even lean forward and enter John's personal sphere.

But even without touching him, he was not free of him. John's scent haunted him day and night. He couldn't seem to get it out of his nostrils, even when he was in his own private room. It was men's shower gel, cheap deodorant, rain water and, well, his flesh. He just wanted to push John down and inhale him. The detention would be worth it.

But unfortunately he was attempting to avoid doing anything which labelled him a complete lunatic in John's mind. He hated caring what anyone thought of him but John was different. He was worth having a shred of dignity for.

Well, maybe. He clearly wasn't perfect. He was under the thumb of the other boys. He was ignorant and overly credulous. He cared too deeply what they thought of him. It was a weakness that chagrined Sherlock. John was so much better than them-

But he couldn't let those thoughts take control of him. It frustrated him too much. He didn't give a damn what Marty Hester and Billy Pip thought of him but to watch John stand beside them made his stomach turn.

He packed up the rest of his things and returned to his room. The corridors were packed and he managed to slip through more or less unnoticed. Everyone was particularly hyped up because of the game the following day and the approaching weekend. They were allowed to go into the nearby town on the weekends. Not that Sherlock ever did. Most of the boys spent their free time drinking and getting into clubs on fake IDs. Sherlock didn't quite know what the attraction to this was.

John usually went with them, which would mean that Sherlock would have to wait to speak to him again until Monday.

It was a gloomy thought. Their brief and often stilted conversations were the only things that were keeping him from just abandoning school altogether. But then again school was his only sanctuary away from home.

He locked his door and lay on his bed. He had no intention of working on the play without John. He didn't even care about the stupid assignment. The only reason he gave it a second thought was because it was his ticket to spending time with John.

He stared grimly ahead. He didn't know why but the usual euphoric bubble which encased him after every session with John was eluding him tonight. Perhaps it was because John's words kept swimming around in his head and he couldn't stop wondering precisely what it was about John's parents that made him clam up the way he had.

He hadn't decided whether or not he was going to attend the football game. Usually he would have preferred to have all of his teeth pulled without anaesthetic, than go anywhere near a field full of rampaging meatheads, but John's question had sparked a tiny...miniscule hope inside of him that John wanted him there.

It was unthinkable of course. He was an idiot for even letting himself think about it, but he couldn't help it.

He agitatedly turned onto his stomach. The overpowering image when he thought about the game was the possibility of seeing John in his football uniform. As shallow as that desire was. His desire for John was becoming a low, aching longing in his gut. It gnawed at him day and night like a sort of hunger. He could ignore it if he applied every ounce of self-control in the pursuit but it would take a lot more work to control the part of his brain that seemed to have dedicated itself purely to the act of yearning for John's body.

...

John could hardly eat the next morning. He felt sick to his stomach and he didn't know why. He knew it couldn't be the game, because that would just be stupid. They had never lost a single game. His father would be there but that was nothing new.

He was greeted by a letter from his mother when the post came around. She had terrible handwriting and a tendency to spell words precisely as they sounded. "Chocolate" became "choclit" and "knife" became "nife". It had originally been extremely confusing but John had trained himself to read her writing. He had tried to teach her some basic spelling and grammar skills once but she had become flustered and impatient after ten minutes and he had given up.

He hated receiving her letters on game days because he knew exactly what they would entail. The same partly reproachful, partly affectionate requests that he make her proud and keep focused and fit and train hard and all the rest of it. He could hear his father in every word and he hated it.

He sighed and folded it and put it with all the others in the top drawer of his desk.

He was late to home class and had to explain himself to Mr. Hurst who didn't really care anyway. His classmates jeered good-naturedly as he made his way to his seat.

Sherlock didn't even look up when he entered. He just continued staring straight ahead, sitting in his very erect, still manner. John felt a pang of resentment but shooed it away. He didn't have any right to expect Sherlock to pay any more attention to him just because they had been thrown together on an assignment. John hadn't earned Sherlock's trust. Perhaps he didn't deserve it.

The day passed too quickly. John spent most of it staring out of the window and dwelling on his mother's letter. It seemed that one minute he was sitting down in his first class of the day and the next he was eating dinner with his team, just a couple of hours before the game.

Ben, who was marginally less obnoxious than the rest of the team, finally noticed that John's altered demeanour and ambushed him when they were taking their plates up to be washed.

"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.

"Nothing," John replied automatically.

Ben sent him a dubious look. "Look, don't worry about the game," he said, stuffing his plate in the soapy water. "They mess around but they'll put the effort in when it counts."

He jerked his head back towards the table. John glanced over. Marty was flinging mashed potato at Billy's head and the rest were talking so loudly that they drowned out the rest of the cafeteria. John occasionally caught words like "fuck" and "chick" and "gay", which seemed to be their favourite adjective. Save only for "queer" and "lame".

"I'm not concerned," John replied shortly. "I know they'll do their best."

Ben raised his eyebrows. "You've been really weird lately," he said bluntly. "All quiet and shit. It's not that stupid assignment with Holmes is it? He's such a douche, you should just ditch him."

They felt more like accusations than questions. John felt a pang of panic at the mention of Sherlock.

"Ben, just fuck off," he snapped, dropping his plate into the sink. "I'm fine! I'm just thinking about the game! I don't need a fucking shrink!"

He turned on his heel and stormed out.

He passed Sherlock sitting alone at his table and felt the boy's eyes rise to settle on him as he flung the doors open. He felt his cheeks burn and felt like turning and telling him to fuck off too. He was sick of feeling like Sherlock was watching him and quietly judging him.

He escaped back to his room and changed slowly into his football uniform. As he stripped off, he felt his anger gradually lessen and then dribble way. It hadn't been Ben or Sherlock that his venom had really been directed towards. The person who he meant it for and who deserved it was not in the school.

He couldn't face going back to dinner so he stayed in his room and went over the first act of his and Sherlock's play again and again, until the words hardly made sense. He made a few half-hearted corrections that he would probably change back later.

An hour before the game, he tidied himself up and pulled on his football boots. He found the team already gathered on the football field. The ground had dried off since their first practice but it was still a bit soggy.

"Alright!" he shouted, blasting his whistle. "Ten laps! Go!"

There were groans and protests but they slowly and grudgingly obeyed. At least when they were puffed, they couldn't mess around. John joined them, hoping that the exertion would quiet his stomach.

By the time the boys were beginning to complain, people were turning up. The other team were already here but they were warming up on the smaller field to the west, which John's team rarely used.

There were no stands, so people brought their own chairs or had to stand or make do with the grass. That was what most of the students did. The parents usually brought fold-up chairs.

John knew it would be pointless to give the team a pep talk.

"Marty, watch your ball control. It's sloppy," he said instead. "And Billy, don't throw your weight around. We can't afford to have you sent off. And don't any of you get lazy. Don't take it for granted that we're going to win. St. Anthony's are good-"

"But we're better," Marty snorted.

Fifteen minutes later, the sidelines were crowded with people and the other team had made their way down to the field. The floodlights streamed down onto the field, surrounded by innumerable moths and insects, but it didn't make it much easier to see the faces of the crowd. John didn't think he would have been able to spot Sherlock, even if he had tried. He couldn't see his parents either.

Principal Harvey would be there. His presence was usually the only thing that stopped the boys from becoming overly vociferous towards their opposing team. Marty hadn't stopped abusing them since they had walked onto the field.

"Fuck! Look at the tall one with the ears! What an ugly fucker!"

"Marty," John said through gritted teeth.

"Oh! No way! We have chode! Look at him! Fuck he can hardly walk, the lazy fu-

"Marty!" John spat. "Shut up."

"Fine," Marty said, rolling his eyes. "God, you're so fucking touchy these days."

John decided he wouldn't dignify that with an response and turned away.

Shortly after, the referee appeared.

John jerked his head at his team. "Come on."

He swept his eyes over the crowds as he walked on. He caught a momentary glimpse of a tall, slender figure behind the main bulk of the crowd and dark hair. He was almost certain that it was Sherlock. His heart gave an odd flutter inside of him.

He forced himself to look at the referee. The St. Anthony's boys were close behind him in their orange and white uniform. John had come against them before and recognised their captain. He nodded his head to him and got a brief smile in return.

"Alright!" the referee said, glancing around them. "I want a clean game. No pushing, no shoving, no diving. Just get on with it." His eyes lingered on Billy and Marty. "Got it?"

There were a few nods and murmurs of agreement, though Billy and Marty remained indifferent.

"Alright, captain," the referee said to John. "Heads or tails?"

John hesitated.

"Tails."

...

Sherlock didn't intend to stay for the entire game. For one, it was freezing. He was wrapped up in a thermal, a woollen pullover, a cardigan and a coat and he was still shivering. There was a gaggle of parents around him, drinking tea from thermal containers and speaking in low, serious voices about the probability of a penalty shoot-out.

Most of the students were collected to one end, which Sherlock had carefully avoided. He managed to find a gap between various shoulders and heads to see the game somewhat clearly. Not that he understood the rules. Or the point.

He tried to be interested for John's sake but the continual sound of the referee's whistle and the approving murmurs or disappointed groans of the crowd made it impossible for him to focus. Twenty minutes later there was a sudden roar of "Goal!" and he found himself jostled and elbowed on all sides by hysterical parents.

He craned his neck and managed to catch sight of Marty jogging past the crowd with a contemptuous smirk on his face. John gave Marty a congratulatory slap on the shoulder, which sent ridiculous jolts of jealousy throughout Sherlock's entire body.

Soon after, he decided it was time to go and turned and made his way back up to the school.

...

The final score was 3-nil. Which wasn't as huge as some of their past wins. The team had played well. There had been stupid mistakes, but luckily Ben was an excellent goalie. While the other boys congratulated themselves and made plans to go down into town and swipe some vodka from the bottle shop to celebrate, John made his way over to his father.

"Fantastic work, son," his father said gruffly, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze. "Great goal! Nice control. Didn't panic, kept right on the ball! Excellent stuff. Just excellent. Now, you just need to make sure that when you lose the ball, you don't miss a beat. You get right back on him, alright? Every second counts!."

His father was dressed in his permanently adorned suit. He was the manager of a bank and seemed to think that it was his duty to always dress like he was going for a job interview. His mother was noticeably absent.

"Where is she?" he asked quietly, ignoring his father.

His father fell quiet very quickly. He glanced around with an uneasy chuckle.

"Oh, you know your mother," he said heartily. "She had her book club on. Couldn't tear herself away. She'll come to the next one."

John glanced at his sister. She didn't often come to his games. She was twenty and had moved out of home a year earlier. John envied her a lot.

"I might go and have a quick word with Barry," his father said, nodding towards Marty's father who sported a bulging beer belly and spoke in a booming, obnoxious voice.

John wasn't sorry for him to leave. He smiled wryly at his sister and allowed her to give him a brief hug.

"Nice game," she said, with a grin.

"Thanks," John replied. "Why are you here? I thought you hated this place." He couldn't help the slight edge of bitterness that crept into his voice at the thought that his sister had the choice to stay away from Redverse and voluntarily came there. He, on the other hand, was trapped there.

She shrugged. "It's alright. I thought you might need some moral support." She glanced at their father. "Wanna go for a walk or something?"

"Sure," John said, surprised.

He collected his bag from the bench and they wandered across to the empty western field. They were silent for some time. Harriet was the first to speak.

"How is it here this year?"

"Fine," John said quickly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

She glanced at him, even though the dark he could sense her questioning expression. "Oh... Well, that's good. I just thought... maybe people would... But if not, then that's great."

John sighed. "Well, I haven't exactly... made it public knowledge."

He hesitated, knowing exactly what her response would be.

"At all."

"John!" she exclaimed. "The longer you keep it a secret, the more it'll seem like a big problem that you can't face."

"I know!" he snapped. "I know you're right! But you don't know what it's like here. Those boys..." He jerked his head back. "They'd rip me limb from limb."

Harriet sighed again and it was full of a pity and regret that infuriated him. "You should tell dad."

John choked. "Are you serious? Are you trying to get me killed? Fuck, Harry. I can't believe you would even say that-"

"So, what, you're gonna live your life according to his rules and this stupid school's rules forever?" she retorted. "You're not happy. I know you're not."

"What the hell would you know!" John said hotly, the anger bubbling up inside of him despite his attempts to quell it. "You live miles away now! You don't have to live with dad on your back every single minute of the day. What about if I don't want to go to some stupid football academy? What about if I want to go university? Do something I want to do for a bleeding change..."

Harriet didn't reply. In the almost pitch darkness they walked along the edge of the trees that separated the school from the common land. The acceleration and adrenaline were beginning to leak away and John was beginning to feel the cold.

He paused to tug his jumper from his kit bag. Harriet stopped, staring back towards the distant floodlights and the school. As he straightened up, she was taking a cigarette from her purse and a lighter.

John felt a pang. "When did you start smoking?"

"A few months ago," she replied, with the cigarette between her lips. She lit it and it shone like a tiny, orange speck in the darkness. The smell filled his nostrils and he thought of another time he had stood in the cold and smelt that scent.

"What does dad think?" he grunted as they began to walk again.

Harriet gave a short, humourless laugh. "He can't talk. He smokes like a chimney."

John shrugged. "They're poisonous."

"Look, don't change the subject," Harriet said. "We're talking about you. I don't think it's healthy to keep all of this just locked away."

John groaned. "Please, can we just drop it?"

"No!' she said sternly. "I'm your sister and I love you. I just want what's best."

"You clearly don't or you wouldn't want me to get beaten up so badly," John replied flatly.

"Look, if you can't tell your classmates, at least tell dad," she reasoned. "School finishes at the end of the year but dad will always be there. Tell him you don't want to play football anymore and tell him you're-"

"I don't need you to tell me what to do!" John bristled. "I'm perfectly capable of making a decision."

"Fine," Harriet said, with an almost audible roll of her eyes. "Do what you want. I just don't think you will ever be happy until you're straight with dad."

There was silence. They both realised her unfortunate choice of words at the same time. Harriet stifled a snigger.

"Harriet," John said reproachfully. "Not funny."

"I'm sorry," she choked through badly suppressed laughter. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

They had reached the far steps that led back up to the main entrance of the school. There was a long, white path which led to front gates. It was lit every few feet by a black iron lamp.

John blinked the sudden light out of his eyes and glanced up at the hulking mass of the school. He had to suppress a sigh. He dreaded the thought of going back in. He wished he could just keep walking.

"Well," Harriet said grudgingly, "I guess we should get back. Dad will be wondering where we wandered off to."

"Yeah," John said. "I suppose."

She dropped her cigarette and ground it into the clean, white stone with the heel of her boot. "Look. Before we go back. I've got a present for you."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

She dug a hand into her bag and pulled out a magazine. It was rolled up tight with a rubber band. She handed it to him. "Make sure you keep it safe." She winked in a vaguely disconcerting manner.

John stared at it. "What is it?"

"Just a bit of light reading material when you get bored of school books," she said lightly.

John didn't believe her but put it into his bag without comment. They went up the stairs and headed back to the field. The crowds were beginning to thin. His father was still deep in conversation with Barry Hester, to John's chagrin.

He grudgingly went over to break them up.

"Hey, dad," he said, nodding to Barry Hester in greeting.

"Hey, mate!" his father said eagerly. "You know Barry Hester? Marty's father."

"'Course he does!" boomed Barry, giving John a painful slap on the shoulder. "Marty's his best bloody striker! I was just telling your dad, we reckon he's got a pretty good shot at being spotted by a scout. He's got just the right stuff you need to go professional I reckon."

"John's hoping to go professional too," his father replied, with an element of pride that made John's stomach turn. "Aren't you, son?"

John nodded numbly.

Barry gave him another painful slap. "Excellent stuff! You're a good captain. Best this school has seen. Keep going the way you're going and you could go all the way, lad."

John forced a smile. "Thanks very much." He turned to his father. "Dad, I'm going to head back."

"Alright then," his father said, grinning at him with such overwhelming pride that John wanted to shake him. "I'll get your mother to write to you or send you an email or something. Once she's finally got her head around using the internet." He tapped his forehead and rolled his eyes in a contemptuous manner. John's stomach clenched with cold anger.

Barry gave a loud, brash laugh. "Women, aye! They know their away around fifty knobs on a bloody oven but they can't use a computer or drive a car to save their lives! I dunno!"

John heard Harriet give a disdainful laugh from behind him, which Barry clearly took as a mark of self-deprecating agreement because he winked at her. John couldn't even force a smile and thought it would be best to just turn away and get as far from the two idiots as possible.

He had no intention of going to the team party. He was being overwhelmed by the urge to climb under the covers and stay there all weekend.

He managed to slip into his room without attracting any attention. He could hear the rest of the team singing at the top of their lungs from the common room and didn't think he would be disturbed. He locked the door just in case. He didn't think Billy would be coming back. Usually after a binge, he passed out on one of the common room sofas.

He stripped off and changed into his pyjamas, feeling too tired and irate to go for a shower. He'd get up early and hit the showers before a line formed.

He was sitting on his bed, brooding on how much he hated Barry Hester when he suddenly remembered Harriet's "present". He got it from his bag and carefully unfurled it.

He smoothed it out straight and felt the colour drain from his cheeks. For a moment he was too stunned to fully compute what it was.

Then it hit him in one rather rapid wave. Sprawled across the cover was the bare-chest of a rather bronzed and toned young man. He was obscured from the waist down, though the incline just below his hips was disconcertingly obvious. His slouched posture was decidedly provocative.

John felt the blood rush back into his cheeks as he took in the word Slab printed in broad, bold letters across the top. He dropped it without completely meaning to and it hit the carpet with a resounding slap. He stared at it disbelief and horror. If this was his sister's idea of a joke... God, sometimes he could strangle his family.

He heard footsteps outside and hastily scooped it up and stuffed it into his kit bag, his heart pumping. The footsteps faded away but he didn't relax. He had to get rid of it. If anyone found him with that sort of... thing on him, he was as good as dead.

He kicked his kit bag under his bed and forced himself to lie down. There was no point in freaking out. Tomorrow he'd work out a plan. It would be easier to get rid of it on the weekend when the boys were at home or in town than what it would be during the week. He could probably sneak down to the bins unnoticed. Small bloody mercies.

He could still hear the increasingly drunken commotion from the common room. Someone was singing a rather awful rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. John hoped that they were being ironic, as it was in actuality a rugby song. He didn't think so somehow.

He slid under the covers and tried to force himself to relax but his conversation with his sister had served to rile him up too much. She made it sound so easy. It was different when you were on the outside looking in. She didn't understand John's position. One faulty move and everything could come tumbling down.

And her cigarette had reminded him of Sherlock. He hadn't seen him after the game. He must have left early, which wasn't surprising. He could imagine Sherlock's face if he could see just how dysfunctional John really was. Completely unable to face his father or help his mother. Being smuggled gay porn by his sister...

His "sporting hero" image would certainly vanish pretty quickly.

He turned onto his stomach and buried his head into his pillow, trying fruitlessly to drown out the noise from the common room.

End of Chapter Five