It's all I can do sometimes to keep it together. But I know you've got it; you've got the love.
Chapter Seven:
Around six in the evening, the football team began to rouse from their various falling places. Billy somehow managed to drag himself back to John's room to sleep the remainder of his hangover off.
John didn't respond to Billy's grumbled complaints about his headache as he came lumbering through the door. He hadn't moved from the bed since he had kicked Sherlock out half an hour ago.
He was still numb. He couldn't believe that Sherlock, of all people, would have done that to him. Sherlock, who repelled every attempt to have his hard exterior penetrated. John didn't know how Sherlock would respond to his newly garnered intelligence about John's private life. Part of John didn't want to care, but a far larger part of him dreaded what Sherlock now thought of him.
It was hard to admit that Sherlock's opinion mattered so much to him. But it did.
Billy had clambered under the covers of his bed and was snoring. He probably wouldn't wake for another few hours. Glancing carefully at him, John knelt down and carefully took the magazine from its new hiding place under his pillow. He slid it under his pullover. He also pulled his school jumper on over the top for extra protection. The tight band around his hips successfully kept it in place against his stomach so he could walk more or less naturally.
He decided to go the less well-travelled route so he could avoid the cafeteria and the common room. His concern about being caught was massively overridden by his desperation to get rid of the magazine as quickly as possible. However, he walked with his head down to deter anyone who might think to interrupt him.
Unfortunately it didn't work on everyone.
"Hey! John!"
He froze at the sound of Marty's voice. He slowly turned, a cold rush of dread sweeping through him. He nervously touched his stomach. "Hi, Marty," he said, forcing a grin. "Good night?"
"Fuck," Marty said, returning the grin with far more enthusiasm. "It was a good one, ay? But I reckon I could get fucked up again tonight. You up for it?"
John hesitated. He never really enjoyed going out with the football team. They were a bit too drunk, a bit too loud, a bit too obnoxious for his tastes when they went out and about. "I'm not sure," he said finally.
"Aw, come on!" Marty groaned. "You're no bloody fun these days. I think that fucker Holmes is starting to rub off on you."
John gave a humourless laugh. Just thinking about Sherlock made his stomach contract with humiliation. He shifted uncomfortably where he was, the magazine's weight seemed to sag down against his clothes.
"Yeah," he said abruptly, hoping it would get Marty to leave him alone. "Actually, you know, I'll come. Where are you off to?"
"Sweet," Marty said, punching John's shoulder triumphantly. "Some party down in the town. Should be good. We'll split some cash for some cheap booze, ay?"
"Sure," John said, though he had never liked the taste of it. "Yeah, I could use a drink. You think we can get anything stronger?"
"Might be able to swipe some shit from the bottle shop," Marty said, shrugging. "Have to be careful though. The dick who runs it might get suspicious. I can probably get a hold of something though."
John decided not to ask how. Marty had his ways.
"Fine," he said. "Sounds good. I'm going to go for a run."
He shifted the magazine under his pullover; the corner was digging into his stomach. Marty glanced down at his school jumper. John's heart stopped in his chest. If Marty got suspicious, if Marty thought he was trying to hide something he wouldn't stop until he knew what it was. If John was caught with the magazine on his person, he was as good as dead.
"On the weekend? Shit, man. You work yourself too hard." Mercifully Marty didn't seem to notice the very slight rectangular shape against the grey acrylic.
John shrugged. "Just want to keep fit," he said, desperate to get away. "See you later."
"See ya, man," Marty said, slapping his back.
John turned and hastily made his escape. He didn't stop until he was safely down in the courtyard at the back of the school. It was rarely used, except as a handy storage place for bins, unused furniture and sporting equipment. Students weren't really supposed to go down there but they often did to smoke or smuggle banned items into the dumpster. Such as explicit material.
John stood in front of the largest dumpster, glancing around from one side to the other and then up to the tower of windows above him. They were dark and empty. It felt like he was being watched by dozens of blank, rectangular eyes.
In one swift movement he plucked the magazine from under his clothes and jammed it into the dumpster, barely daring to lift the lid more than an inch. He dropped it shut and hurriedly made his way back to the school, not looking back. With every step he expected to hear someone yell for him to stop.
He spent the remainder of an anxious and miserable afternoon pretending to do the pile of homework he hadn't gotten around to doing for the past week. He couldn't concentrate. His stomach was turning; his mind kept replaying scenes in his head that he just wanted to forget. Even with the magazine gone, he was far from free from the repercussions of its discovery. Sherlock would never believe John's excuses. John didn't quite know what Sherlock intended to do with the information, but there was an uneasy flicker inside of him every time he thought about how Sherlock could punish him with this information. John had never done anything for him, this could be Sherlock's perfect opportunity to throw back some of his mistreatment onto John. More than part of John wouldn't have blamed him.
Around six he gave up attempting to work and went to have a shower. It was packed at this time of night and he didn't return to his room until quarter to seven. He met Billy on the way, who looked unsurprisingly rough given the amount he had drunk the night before. John was extremely surprised that he was intending to come out and drink with them again, but he knew that there was nothing he or anyone else could say to dissuade him.
"The others are waiting in the cafeteria," Billy grunted, rubbing his swollen eyes. He still stank of sweat and alcohol, only weakly obscured by a coat of deodorant. "You better hurry up."
"Yeah, yeah," John said. "I'll catch up."
Billy disappeared and John quickly towelled his hair dry and stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and his phone into his front one.
He was almost ready to go when there was a quiet knock on his door. "I'm coming!" he shouted, hurriedly tying his shoelaces. "Just wait two seconds!"
"It's me."
John stood up quickly, staring at the door. "Go away," he said coldly.
Nonetheless the door opened. Sherlock stepped inside, seeming irritatingly unmoved by John's unfriendly reception. He didn't seem to have been expecting anything else.
"Are you deaf?" John snapped.
Sherlock ignored him and shut the door. John stared at him in annoyance. He did not want to be stuck in a room with Sherlock tonight. He wanted to be as far from him as possible. He knew he must have been flushed; his embarrassment must have been obvious and yet Sherlock stayed.
"Look, I just wanted to apologise," he said calmly.
"I don't care," John retorted. "Just get out. I'm going out and the boys are expecting me in five minutes."
Sherlock didn't look surprised. "I know," he said.
John couldn't stand the way Sherlock was looking at him. His eyes were too penetrating, too knowing. With those simple words, he said so much more than what he meant. "I can do whatever the fuck I want," he hissed. "It has nothing to do with you."
Sherlock's expression didn't change. "You're better than them, John," he said quietly. "You don't have to play by their rules just because you're scared they'll find out-"
"Shut up!" John snarled. "Just shut up! Fuck. You think you know everything about me. You don't know anything. Just leave me alone!"
He knew he was overreacting, that his venom was completely unwarranted but he was too furious to care. Sherlock's silence was infuriating. John shoved him to one side and stalked out the door. He didn't stop until he had reached the doors of the cafeteria.
...
The party house was already packed when they arrived. People were spilling out onto the upstairs balcony. Music was blaring, making the whole street vibrate and the inside was thick with smoke.
John stayed close to Marty, Ben and Billy. He hadn't been out in such a long time. He had almost forgotten what it was all about. He accepted Marty's offer of a drink and ended up sharing a whole bottle with him. There was also beer in the bathtub of the upstairs bathroom but there was a general flow of booze from all over the place.
They managed to snag an empty sofa in the living room, or what was left of it. Marty disappeared early on in the evening with some girl and left Ben, Billy and John to talk amongst themselves. Billy was more interested in getting drunk than anything. Ben was in the middle of a fairly animated discussion with two boys on the English Premier League. John sat by himself, sucking on his beer and feeling increasingly light-headed and tipsy. He knew he had already drunk too much, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. The more alcohol he consumed, the blurrier and more distant his horrible conversation with Sherlock became.
He was passed a vodka shot and he had swallowed it before he had completely realised what he was doing. He did another and finally Ben stepped in and said that he had probably had enough for the time being. John didn't argue. He still had a beer in his hand to finish.
"That bird in the corner has been staring at you for the last thirty minutes," Ben said in a low voice, holding John steady, who was beginning to acquire a telltale sway in the way he was standing.
John knew Ben was trying to distract him but decided to humour him. He looked around and saw that a fairly attractive girl with dark hair and an almost nonexistent pink dress was indeed watching him. She smiled at him, shaking her very straight hair back from her face.
"Go and talk to her," Ben said, nudging him. "She's not half bad looking."
"Yeah, might s'well," John slurred, with an indifferent shrug.
He half walked, half stumbled over to her and stuck out his hand. She laughed and shook it, giving her long hair another shake.
"Hey," she said, smiling sweetly.
"Hello," he said, leaning against the door. Her heavily painted face lost a lot of its charm up close. Her foundation was too thick and her mascara had all clumped together. "You from around here?"
"Sure, just five minutes away," she replied, leaning closer to him. "You?"
"Redverse," he grunted, jerking his head back towards Ben.
She glanced at Ben over his shoulder. "Oh! Really? It's an all boys' school, isn't it?"
"Yeah," John said, taking a mouthful of beer. "Shit hole."
She gave another syrupy laugh. "Don't you ever miss being around girls? I bet it gets lonely there."
Her hand was on his arm now. There couldn't have been more than an inch between them. Her cheap perfume was making him feel slightly ill.
"You look really pretty," he mumbled, glancing away to take another swig of beer.
"Aw, thanks," she said, with a wide smile. She put her mouth close to his ear. "You want to see what upstairs is like?"
John leant back to look at her. "Yeah, okay," he said, without completely knowing why.
They threaded through the crowd towards the stairs, the girl's clammy hand wrapped tight around his. They went up, passing entwined couples along the hall. The upstairs was full of people too, but to a marginally lesser extent. Most of them were wrapped around each other, tongues jammed down each other's throats.
Even in his current state, John knew this wasn't want he wanted. But he he had no idea how to get out of the situation. She pulled him close to her. He was uncomfortably aware that there were a lot of people around and of her hands pressed too close against his body.
"Relax, doll," she said softly, putting her mouth close to his. "You need to loosen up."
Before John could reply, she had leant forward and mashed her sticky mouth against his. He felt her tongue jam itself between his lips.
John jerked backwards, the beer slipping from his grasp. It hit the floor and shattered, surprising the girl into breaking away. John's relief was marred by the foggy sensation that had invaded his mind. He stared at her blearily, hardly able to focus on her face.
"Are you alright?" she exclaimed, trying to grab his arm.
"I'm fine," he said, pulling himself from her grip. "Sorry, I have to go."
He ignored the commotion that had broken out around his broken bottle and pushed his way through the crowd to the stairs and down to the front door, desperate for fresh air. He could still taste her lip gloss and the alcopop she had been drinking.
His stomach turned violently inside of him. He leant heavily on the garden gate and bent over into the garden, throwing up violently into the darkness. He heard someone come out behind him. He hoped desperately that it wasn't the girl.
He turned and was relieved to find that it was Ben, still holding his own beer and an unlit cigarette.
"Hey, I saw you running out. What's wrong? That bird no good at kissing or something?"
"I feel fucking awful," John mumbled, and it was the truth. "I'm going to head back."
"Are you sure, man?" Ben said, glancing back at the house. "What about your date?"
John grunted and turned to leave. "Tell her she wears too much damn makeup."
Ben sniggered. "Don't get mugged, will you?" He called after John, who was already making his way up the street and back towards the school.
...
Sherlock wasn't surprised that John had lost his temper. He was embarrassed and angry. Perhaps even confused. He was taking out that anger on an easy target. That was all it was.
Well, that was what he kept telling himself when that betraying flicker of hurt emerged inside his stomach. He wasn't offended, it wasn't quite that irrational but there was a gnawing pang in his chest which stung from John's anger.
Surely it would subside. John wasn't the sort of person to hold grudges. Sherlock was certain of that. But then again, John kept surprising him with aspects of his personality that Sherlock had never dreamt could exist.
He finally sat back in his chair, pushing away the book he had barely been paying attention to. He could never have imagined that John, of all people in the entire universe, could be gay. But Sherlock supposed the signs had been there. Why he had never mocked Sherlock's sexuality. Why he hated the derogatory gay slurs that his friends constantly made. Why he was so careful about what he revealed of himself.
Sherlock was ashamed and annoyed that he hadn't realised it sooner. It was stupid of him to miss it. He had been too lovesick to see it. Now he had successfully outed John in the most embarrassing, sloppy manner possible. No wonder John hated him.
He shook his head at himself and walked across to his bed, deciding that nothing but sleep would comfort him. He didn't know how he could make up his blunder to John, or if he ever could. John had just been beginning to trust him and Sherlock had thrown it all back in his face.
A loud, telltale thump from outside his door interrupted his thoughts. He stared at it, wondering if the boys had returned early from their drinking spree. There was another loud, low thump, this one right against his door and accompanied by the doorknob being turned. Well, not so much turned, as twisted violently again and again. Sherlock thought they might rip the doorknob right off if they kept handling it like that.
Grumbling, he walked across, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but stopped short on opening the door. It was John. Looking very pale and leaning heavily against the wall. He smelt faintly of cigarette smoke. Sherlock stared at him.
"What?" John slurred, swaying unsteadily where he stood. "You're not going ask me in? And here I thought you were a gentleman."
He was incredibly drunk. Sherlock shook his head with a sigh.
"You're pissed," he said flatly, glancing down at John's stained shirt.
"Shut up," John mumbled, pushing him out of the way.
Sherlock was hardly going to leave him out in the hall like this, but he didn't look forward to bearing the brunt of John's drunken wrath. He closed the door and turned to find John sitting on his bed, his back rested against the wall. He turned his head and smiled at Sherlock. It still made Sherlock's stomach compress. Even when John was smashed.
"Well?" John said, gazing at Sherlock with a hazy expression. "What are you thinking? You know my big secret now. Are you going to punish me for being such a wanker to you? You could, you know. A lot of people would."
Sherlock was taken aback. "I don't think you're in the right state to be talking about things like that. You may say something you regret."
John laughed, getting to his knees with some difficulty. "Like what? I might say that... that..." he gave an unsteady wobble. "That I hate this fucking school. That I hate fucking football. And I hate my fucking father."
The breath caught in Sherlock's throat. "Look," he said steadily. "I'm not the person you want to say all of this to. You should go back to your room and get some sleep."
To his surprise, John slid off of the bed and came so close to him that he could smell the beer on his breath. "What about if I don't want to go to my room?" He leant up and a spasm of shock went through Sherlock as John's lips came perilously close to his.
He could have so easily pressed his hand to John's back and kissed him. He could have kissed him deeply and desperately and touched every single inch of his body. But, he forced himself to step back. John looked achingly confused and a bit hurt.
"I'm a... Don't you see... I'm trying to..." he said uncertainly, staring at Sherlock with hazy blue eyes. "I'm attracted to you."
Sherlock heart stood still in his chest. "No, you're drunk and upset," he said, shaking his head slowly. "You'd kiss Mr. Hurst if you happened to stumble over him in the corridor."
"You clearly don't think very much of me if you think that's true," John mumbled, touching a hand to his head in a telltale sign that he was beginning to feel the effect of the profuse amount of alcohol he had consumed.
"You should lie down," Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. "You're not in any state to be running around, knocking on people's doors."
John nodded vaguely and, to Sherlock's dismay, went across to the unused bed opposite his and dropped down onto it. He lay on his back, turning his head to gaze at Sherlock. Sherlock watched him silently, his heartbeat sickeningly rapid.
"Do you find me disgusting?" John said quietly, his eyes closing partly.
"Why would I find you disgusting?" Sherlock breathed. He was conscious of the hardness between his legs, but doubted John would notice it in his current state.
"I'm... I'm..." John struggled with the words, though Sherlock didn't know whether it was because he was drunk or for a very different reason. "You know why."
Sherlock shook his head. "I would never find you, of all people, disgusting," he said quietly. "I could never feel anything for you but regard and admiration."
It was the truest statement he had ever made, but he doubted that John would remember it. In fact he wouldn't have said it if he had been anything less than certain that he wouldn't. John didn't reply, he closed his eyes and turned his head away from Sherlock.
Within minutes, his breathing had lengthened and his body had grown limp against the bed. Sherlock still hadn't moved or looked away. He felt rooted to the floor. His eyes roamed over John's sleeping figure. He looked slender and breakable and utterly vulnerable. His defences completely dissolved by the alcohol and sleep.
Sherlock couldn't help himself. He knelt down by John's side and lowered his face to John's woollen pullover. He pressed his nose into the fabric. Past the stench of cigarettes and beer and deodorant was that raw, soft smell that was only John's. It filled his nostrils, his mouth, his mind. It was perfect. He leant back, watching the careful rise and fall of John's chest. He was perfect.
End of Chapter Seven