Television man is crazy saying we're juvenile delinquent wrecks.
Chapter Six:
John was noticeably absent from breakfast the next morning. Sherlock wondered if he was sleeping off a hangover like the rest of the team. He was aware that they had gotten pretty loud the night before and had been given a stern dressing down by the Vice Principal, by which point they were probably too drunk to really give a damn anyway. They had all been put into lunchtime detention for a week; something he doubted would have a particularly staggering effect on the boys' drinking habits in the long run. But the school had always turned a partly blind eye to the football team's exploits.
Sherlock finished his porridge and headed back to his room, planning to spend the day rereading A Brief History of Criminal Justice cover for cover. Anything to keep from replaying the football game again and again in his mind. He had already wasted a night's sleep doing that.
As hard as he tried to forget it, there was something distinctly unnatural about John when he was so firmly immersed in his "well-rounded prefect-in-training" role. The vague irritation Sherlock used to feel watching John with his friends had snowballed into a sickening frustration. He wasn't who they thought he was. He wasn't that person. Sherlock wanted to break all the lies apart.
As he rounded the corner into the dorms, he was surprised to see John himself emerging from his room. He looked surprisingly well-rested. Well, compared to the rest of the team. He looked different dressed in plain clothes; a pair of fitted jeans and a t-shirt that seemed to cling to every inch of his toned torso.
Sherlock felt his heart climb up into his throat. He knew he couldn't just walk past, though the temptation was there. He didn't know what to say.
Before he had made up his mind to approach him, John turned and saw him. He smiled. "Hi."
Sherlock grudgingly stopped in front of him. "Good morning."
There was an uncomfortable pause. Sherlock noticed that John had a slight speck of toothpaste on the curve of his top lip. The temptation to lean forward and lick it off was overwhelming.
"Did you end up coming to the game?" John asked finally.
"For a bit," Sherlock replied.
John smiled wryly. "I'm surprised. I didn't think football games were your thing?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't distance myself from particular events just because it may damage whatever image you think I hold of myself. Football just does not interest me."
John smiled bitterly. Sherlock sensed that he wanted to say something, but wouldn't let himself.
Instead he changed the subject. "What are you up to today?"
"Nothing that would interest you," Sherlock said coolly.
John's laugh sent a warm shiver up Sherlock's spine. "Try me."
"Just a book," Sherlock said vaguely. "I suppose you'll be going into town?"
John pulled a face. "I don't know. My friends aren't really in the right shape to be wandering around town."
Sherlock shrugged, not wanting John to think that he cared too much about what he did in his spare time. "Well, maybe you could work on the play. There's plenty of work to be done on it."
He glanced down at the toes of their matching Converse shoes. They had something in common after all. When he looked up, he found John watching him. He felt the heat rise to the surface of his skin but managed to hold his gaze without faltering.
"Um I..." John broke off, going visibly pink.
"Yeah?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.
"Maybe... if you weren't at all busy..." John continued rapidly, "we could... hang out."
Sherlock stared at him. John couldn't possibly have said what he thought he'd just said.
He must have had an uncharacteristically blank expression on his face because John's cheeks went even darker and he began to ferociously backpedal. "I-I mean just because you... you haven't got much to do and my friends are busy..." he said hastily. "It doesn't have to be a recurring thing."
Sherlock somehow managed to regain control of his mouth. "Oh... I really... I'm..." he stammered, his verbal auto-pilot crumbling. "I have a lot of homework," he finished lamely.
He inwardly winced. He could have at least thought of a convincing lie.
"Oh, right. Of course," John said, nodding his head fervently. "Absolutely. I understand. I just thought-Sorry, I should have realised-"
"No," Sherlock said. "It's fine. Thanks, ah, for the offer."
They stared at each other.
Sherlock could feel the colour beginning to rise in his own face. There was about six inches between them, and Sherlock could see every line of John's face with unnerving clarity. He could smell that John had just come out of the shower. The scent of his shampoo was still in his hair.
Sherlock was overwhelmed with the desire to lean down about two inches, that was all it would take, and press his mouth to John's. He wanted to touch the base of John's neck and gently guide his body against his. He wanted to run a hand down John's stomach and touch his hips and gingerly press his tongue inside and lick that speck of toothpaste off slowly so that John gasped with pleasure.
He gave himself a mental shake. He hadn't realised quite how intently he had been staring at John, he was beginning to look vaguely disconcerted.
"Well, I guess I'll see you later," John said awkwardly.
"Right," Sherlock said, in a weird, hearty voice that he'd never heard himself use before. "Bye."
He escaped into his own room and flattened himself against the door, hardly able to believe what had just happened. He couldn't help giving himself a pinch.
He stared at the opposite wall in a daze. John was probably still where he had left him, staring at Sherlock's door and wondering what had gotten into him. Then he would turn and make his way to the cafeteria or wherever else and would probably end up going into town with someone else.
Sherlock grimaced. John had basically offered himself up on a plate and Sherlock had said no. John wanted to spend time with him. It was almost unthinkable. Sherlock had thought that he'd made his position perfectly clear to John. He had done everything in his power to keep a safe distance between them.
But in the past week there had been moments when the conversation between them had become... almost natural. He had even found himself laughing with John once. His resolve had definitely softened. John's smile had melted him down to a gooey puddle.
A tinny voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him that playing happy couples with John Watson was a very stupid idea, but it was being drowned out by the mass of fireworks that had begun simultaneously exploding in his brain.
But then again, it could just be pity that motivated John. It wasn't like John would really choose him over his friends to spend time with. He would still prefer to be with Billy Pip or Marty Hester. Sherlock was just a last resort.
Sherlock stared at the opposite wall. Half a second later, he threw open the door and hurried back out into the hallway. John's blonde head was just disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall.
Sherlock hastily followed him.
"John!" he called, as he reached the corner and saw John halfway down the next corridor. "Hey! John!"
John thankfully heard him and turned. Sherlock hurried to meet him.
"Yeah?" John stared at him.
"Is it too late to take you up on your offer?" Sherlock said, attempting a small smile.
John looked blank for a moment and Sherlock thought in horror that he was going to say 'yes', but then he grinned. "Of course not. I'll grab my wallet."
...
At first the conversation was extremely stiff. John made small talk about the assignment and Sherlock pretended to be interested, but really he was just enjoying the way John's hand occasionally brushed against his by accident as they walked along the high street.
"I think we should change the beginning of act one," John said seriously. "We should begin closer to the action. A little preamble would be okay, but not too much. We don't want to bog it down with too much back-story."
"That sounds very wise," Sherlock replied. He had to admit, he was extremely surprised by John's gusto when it came to the play. John had never struck him as a particularly academic sort.
"And I was thinking that maybe we should make the rehearsal scene shorter," John went on, completely missing Sherlock's smirk. "It goes on for a fair few pages and I think that it might be a bit overly complicated."
"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, noting how bright and blue John's eyes looked in the midday sunshine. "We can go over it on Monday perhaps?"
"Yeah," John said, glancing at him. "Good idea."
Silence fell. Neither of them seemed to want to prod a little bit further, to dare to venture onto subjects beyond schoolwork. Sherlock didn't mind the silence. He was almost happy in John's company and that was not a state he was used to being in. Though the tinny voice still hadn't shut up and was whinging away in a far corner of his mind.
They reached a cafe and decided to stop for a coffee. They sat outside, underneath a wide red and white umbrella. John ordered a cappuccino and Sherlock ordered black coffee without sugar.
He watched as John poured about half a ton of the stuff into his own cup before drinking it.
"How do you taste the coffee over all of the sugar?" he quipped, as John took a sip and successfully got froth all over his lips.
John darted a tongue out and licked it away. Sherlock shifted very slightly in his seat.
"Hey! You can hardly question my tastebuds when you order that crap," John retorted, nodding to Sherlock's cup. "It must be bitter as all hell."
"I like my coffee to taste like coffee," Sherlock replied archly.
"That says a lot about you," John said. His eyes were glinting slightly. "You like people to be without pretence. I'm too bogged down with appearances clearly." He grinned, nodding at his own frothy, sugary concoction.
"Is that your attempt at psychology?" Sherlock replied drily. "Do you plan on being a shrink when you finally escape the hallowed halls of Redverse School for Boys?"
"No," John said, his grin vanishing. "I don't really know what I'll do."
"You're fairly adept at football," Sherlock said, watching him closely.
John looked at him, the displeasure evident in his eyes. "Yeah, well. We don't always have to pursue something just because we happen to have a freak talent for it," he said flatly.
Sherlock didn't think John realised just how much he gave away of himself whenever he spoke. He was so earnest and unpretentious. It was both a charm and a curse.
"What are you interested in?" Sherlock asked, taking a sip of coffee.
"Well, lots of things," John replied. "Music, movies-"
"I mean to pursue as a career," Sherlock interjected.
"Oh," John looked taken aback for a moment. "I don't really know."
The way he glanced away told Sherlock that he did know. Very much so. He just wouldn't tell.
"Well, whatever it is, I hope you pursue what interests you and not what you feel should interest you," he said, deciding that pressing the subject would do more harm than good.
"I suppose you want to be a police officer or something," John asked suddenly. "With all those books on criminals and forensics and whatever."
"Hardly," Sherlock said disdainfully. "The force is a hotbed for corruption, nepotism and self-serving disinterest in anything that might derail their own upward ascent."
John raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Well... I just thought... You devised the murder for the play so easily. You seem to know... a lot about that sort of thing."
He was watching Sherlock very earnestly. Sherlock had never met anyone who was genuinely interested in him. He had become used to irritating and unnerving people.
"Oh..." Sherlock shrugged. "It's just a... freak talent I suppose." He smiled wryly.
John laughed and drained the remainder of his cup. "Want to keep walking?"
They wandered further along the strip of shops and houses and then turned into another and then another. Sometimes they spoke, but more often they didn't. Sherlock occasionally allowed himself to glance at John and felt his heart swell foolishly inside of him every time.
He could sense danger. The closer he got to John, the more his senses told him to get far, far away. The tinny voice had become a low ringing in his ears.
They finally turned back when they reached the very edge of the town and found themselves staring at open fields. Sherlock had barely noticed how his feet had begun to ache and how much he needed a drink of water.
As they were walking back towards the school, the sun began to set. Sherlock hadn't been away from the school for this long on the weekend in all of the time he had been at Redverse.
John gave a wide yawn beside him, just as they were reaching the familiar neon lights of the high street. These were the clubs that the boys managed to get themselves into. It wasn't difficult with fake IDs and blind confidence. He didn't suppose the bouncers particularly cared, as the Redverse students probably contributed a nice slice to the club's profits.
"Am I boring you?" Sherlock remarked wryly.
John grunted. "Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night. The team can get a bit excited after games." He laughed, but not in an entirely convincing manner. "Not that they need an excuse."
Sherlock glanced at him. He would have liked to ask why John put up with them, why he lowered himself to their level, why he grovelled for their approval, but he forced himself to be tactful. He had learnt that if he pushed John too hard, he tended to snap closed faster than a clam guarding a pearl.
"Hey, I know it sounds boring but maybe we should try and fix up those things for the play," John said to him when they reached the deserted dormitories. "I mean, we've only got a few weeks before the first draft is due."
Sherlock didn't really have any interest in working on the play any more often than they had to, but he wasn't going to turn down a few extra minutes in John's company. "Ok, sure."
"We might as well use my room," John said, stopping at his door. "Billy never came back last night."
Sherlock decided not to ask.
John's room was surprisingly well-kept. Well, Billy's side left a bit to be desired, what with the piles of dirty washing strewn across his bed, but John's side was profusely clean. The bed was made, the floor was clean, his clothes were folded in a pile on his chest of drawers. All of his shoes were arranged in a straight line. It bordered on the obsessive.
John knelt down by his school bag and dug out the incomplete manuscript. Sherlock stood awkwardly by the door. He hadn't ever had this degree of privacy with John before. The images that had inevitably leapt into his mind were torturous.
John sat on the edge of his bed and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock numbly obeyed, though he could feel dangerous amounts of heat and blood pooling around his crotch. John flipped open the manuscript and began to draw lines through all of the sentences on the first page.
Sherlock could hear him breathing. There was a very faint tinge of sweat mixed with the shampoo now. He closed his eyes and imagined that he could feel the heat of John's body beside him and the each, individual beat of his heart.
"Right," John said suddenly, bringing Sherlock rapidly back to earth. He opened his eyes. "I think it works better if we start here."
He pointed to a paragraph halfway down page two.
"What do you think?"
Sherlock really didn't care. "Yeah, that's much better," he said smoothly, edging subtly away from John on the bed to try and put some space between him and John's suffocating sphere.
"Yeah, I think that's much better," John said with satisfaction. He flipped over a couple more pages. "This can definitely go." He crossed out a large paragraph. "What about this one? Do you think it's a bit too clunky?"
Sherlock stared at the curve of John's mouth and the way it fell open slightly when he was thinking. "Yeah, absolutely," he said vaguely.
"I'll try and shorten that," John said, making a brief note in the margin. "I'll sort that out on Monday. And we'll try and compact the rehearsal scene down a bit more, just to make it a bit more concise."
John moved his hand and it accidentally brushed up the length of Sherlock's thigh. He didn't seem to notice but Sherlock felt it like a hot poker being pressed into his skin. "Sounds good," he croaked.
"Hey," John snapped the notepad shut and looked up. "I might get a Coke or something from the vending machine. Do you want something?"
"No," Sherlock replied, though his mouth felt extremely dry.
John dropped the manuscript onto the bed and stood. "Alright, be back in a minute."
Then he was gone and Sherlock could finally breathe. He stood up with a deep sigh and stared around the room. Never, in all his wildest wet dreams, had he thought that he would find himself here, in John's room.
He could hardly comprehend how just a few weeks ago he and John had never spoken and now they seemed almost to be approaching that strange and mysterious territory of "friends". He had never had a friend in his entire life. He had never regretted the absence and he was still uneasy about the word.
He wandered across to Billy's side of the room and glanced around the mess. School books, muddy shoes, empty cans, packets of cigarettes, a soccer ball were scattered around in senseless disorder. It was the perfect opposite of John's immaculate living area.
He hadn't imagined John to be so neat. Though there was certainly an element of stiffness about his personality, a degree of formality that his down-to-earth cheerfulness couldn't always hide. He seemed to be held back by something. It was probably something that caused him great pain, but without it he would just be other drooling Neanderthal like Billy Pip. For that reason alone, Sherlock selfishly thought he was better for having experienced it.
He shook his head and turned back to John's bed. He frowned. John's kit bag was lying untidily underneath, just visible from where he was standing. Part of John's shirt was sticking out and it was covered with grass. It looked completely out-of-place when all of John's other belongings were carefully categorized.
Sherlock glanced at the door. The vending machine was in the common room, which was down the other end of the hall. And if it was broken, which was likely after a night of treatment from John's friends, he would have to use the one in the cafeteria.
Sherlock hastily knelt by John's bed and pulled it out. He tugged the t-shirt out of the way. Underneath there were a dirty pair of boots, a towel and a magazine crammed into the corner and covered in dirt. He gingerly picked it out and sat back to look at it.
"I can't believe it was sold out of Coke again. Those bastards do it every ti-"
John stopped short in the doorway. Sherlock looked at him and saw the colour drain from his face as his eyes flickered from Sherlock to the magazine in his hands.
"What are you doing?" he stammered, his eyes widening with horror.
Sherlock looked back at the magazine cover and the partly undressed youth on the cover. He knew what it was, but his mind didn't seem to want to make the connection between this and John.
John slammed his drink down onto the desk and stalked across to Sherlock. He snatched the magazine out of his hands, slicing the inside of Sherlock's thumb. "You had no right to go through my things." His voice was seething with anger.
Sherlock hurriedly stood up. He had never seen John look like this. He was violently flushed. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said numbly. "I didn't mean to-"
John flung the magazine down onto the bed. "Just get out, will you?" he spat.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment in silence, watching how John's chest rose and fell furiously. "Alright, I'll go."
He left without a glance back and didn't stop until he was back in his own room. His heart was palpitating so rapidly that he could hardly feel the separate beats. His mind had gone completely blank. For once he didn't have anything to make of this. No clever observations or shrewd conclusions, just thick, foggy numbness.
End of Chapter Six