But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do.
Chapter Eight:
John awoke to the unwelcome sound of the bell ringing to wake the boys for church. It was piercingly loud and rang so continuously that it was impossible to sleep through it. Even the boys who had been out all night usually dragged themselves out of bed and to the school's chapel where the weekly service was held. No one was exempt from church. It was the one thing that the school would not turn a blind eye to.
John sat up with some difficulty and stared around the unfamiliar room. His head was aching gently and his mouth tasted, frankly, disgusting but he'd woken up with worse.
His eyes paused at the bed opposite. The covers were thrown back and Sherlock's clothes from the night before were lying in a pile beneath. John had never been in Sherlock's room and if he had not been so confused and embarrassed to find himself in his current predicament, no doubt he would have taken advantage of this rare insight into Sherlock's jealously guarded territory.
But given the present situation between them, he hastily stood up and made his way to the door. He slipped out into the crowded corridor and managed to get back to his room more or less completely ignored. Billy was emerging from the depths of his bed like some monster of the deep, groaning and complaining incoherently about his hangover. Even if John hadn't had his own concerns to deal with, he doubted whether he would have felt much pity for him.
There was only ten minutes until church but he was resolved to have a shower. The showers would be empty now, everyone would be making their way to the chapel and he'd be alone. He didn't care if he was late. He just needed a few minutes to himself.
His could feel the nausea lurking at the edges of his stomach but he didn't think he was in danger of throwing up. It was the sort of nausea that could be controlled. He got a clean pair of clothes and made his way to the showers.
He tried to tell himself that it wasn't Sherlock's face he was looking for amongst the throngs of dishevelled, half-dressed boys but it was a stupid lie. He wasn't there anyway. Wherever he had escaped to, he was well away from where John could find him.
As intended, the showers were deserted. John went into the nearest cubicle and dumped his clean clothes on the bench fastened to the wall. It was so tiny and awkward that it mostly lost all of its convenience, especially after about ten boys had used it and it was covered in water and soap. Fortunately at this time of morning it was bone dry and fresh from being cleaned.
He was glad to get rid of his clothes. Not just because they were stained and stunk of other people's cigarettes, but because it felt like the humiliation of the past night's events were still clinging to the fabric.
He stepped under the hot water and sighed. The usual pleasure that a shower brought him after a night of partying was tempered by the images that kept replaying themselves in his head. Everything was so foggy and yet so painfully clear. For once he wished he could just forget whatever stupid crap he had done while drunk.
"Fuck it all," he breathed, resting his forehead against the wall.
He didn't know how he could ever face Sherlock again. Not after all the stupid things he had said, the stupid things he had done. Oh God. The things he had done... He groaned into the tiles and turned onto his back.
When he got back to his room, the corridors was empty. He hastily dumped his dirty clothes on his bed and made his way to the chapel. It was the oldest part of the school, located in the very centre. Everything had been built around it. It was large enough to comfortably hold all 500 odd students but mostly its size was suggested by the huge domed ceiling and the balconies that lined all of the walls. It wasn't old, but the school liked to pretend that it was more than a mere century old.
John walked through the doors and closed them as quietly as he could, but the sound still echoed loudly enough to attract the attention of the three back rows and then gradually the rest of the chapel. And then finally, Father Theobald. He was not the sort of man who liked to be interrupted. In fact, giving his weekly sermon seemed to be the greatest pleasure in his life and the mere act of coughing at the wrong moment was a source of irritation to him.
"Mr. Watson," he boomed, his sour expression obvious even from 200 feet away. "If you would kindly take a seat."
John mumbled an apology that he knew Theobald wouldn't be able to hear and glanced around fruitlessly for an empty seat. There was a titter from amongst the crowd. Theobald glared at the perpetrator.
"There is a seat in the front row, Watson," Theobald barked, jerking his head at the nearest pew. "I suggest you take it."
John hurried down the aisle towards it, hating the sensation of having every single pair of eyes in the building fixed on him. He reached it and found that it was almost empty except for a group of grade eighters huddled together at the very end of the pew. And Sherlock Holmes.
John hesitated. Of course Sherlock would have been sitting alone. When did he not? And the front row seemed to be his location of choice. John could feel Father Theobald staring at him with increasing irritation so he cut his losses and sat, on the very edge of his seat so he was as far from Sherlock as humanely possible without falling into the aisle.
"As I was saying," Theobald said, sending John a nasty look.
John doubted whether he was going to hear a word of the sermon, when out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock just inches from him. His neck and cheeks were burning. He hoped Sherlock didn't notice his discomfort, but that seemed a rather futile hope. Sherlock was far too observant to miss it.
The service was just forty-five minutes but it felt torturously long to John. He couldn't bear to move on the bench. It felt like every breath he took and every slight movement he made exposed something of himself to Sherlock. Sherlock probably already knew everything.
John's insides contracted. He stared at a chip in the stone floor, desperate for the pang of hurt that threatened to linger inside of him to fade. He had never felt so confused, so uncomfortable or so desperate for Father Theobald's sermon on the virtues of humility to just end.
Finally, they said their prayers and were blessed and told to go in peace. John waited on the bench, wanting to be the last to leave so he could escape somewhere and try and recover his dignity. But unfortunately he wasn't the only one who stayed behind.
He knew Sherlock was still beside him. He could feel his presence, though he was staring determinedly off in the opposite direction. Sherlock was waiting for him and John dreaded being left alone with him. He contemplated leaving, but he didn't think he could move. He felt paralysed and he could barely take his eyes off the chip in the stone.
He heard the doors swing shut and there was silence, the low roar of voices had moved outside and when he glanced up at the balcony, he saw that the teachers had disappeared too. Father Theobald had retreated to his office.
John stood, still unable to bring himself to look at Sherlock. "What do you want?" he said, wincing at the weakness to his voice.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Sherlock replied, calm and unemotional as always.
"I'm fine," John said through gritted teeth, very much aware that everything from his voice to his posture suggested otherwise. "You didn't have to leave me in your room. I didn't mean to inconvenience you."
"Inconvenience me?" Sherlock said amusedly. "You really are a student right out of the high school for the emotionally repressed."
"What do you want me to say?" John snapped. "I'm sorry I got drunk and passed out in your room?"
"That would be a start," Sherlock said drily. "Looking at me would be a nice touch too."
John jerked his head towards him, feeling so awkward he could hardly breathe. Sherlock looked ruffled and tired. His clothes were uncharacteristically wrinkled. "You look worse than I do," he said wryly.
Sherlock laughed. "You weren't complaining last night."
John felt the colour drain from his face. "I should have known you would act like this," he breathed indignantly.
He turned to storm out but Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks. "You are too predictable," he said in a less than gentle tone. "You are so desperate to maintain this laughable notion you hold that you have to suffer in silence for some unknowable greater good."
John furiously spun to face him. "What the hell are you getting at?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes with a completely humourless laugh. "No one cares if you're gay, John," he said sarcastically. "We don't string up sodomites anymore. In fact in some quarters I've heard a strange notion that it's actually considered quite normal, but of course that might be too radical for your small mind."
"I am not..." John glanced around and lowered his voice to a bare hiss, "gay."
"Excuse me for being sceptical," Sherlock said archly, "but certain evidence speaks otherwise."
"Why the hell do you care?" John demanded furiously.
Sherlock stared at him, his eyes unsettlingly shrewd. "Are you really so dull as to need an answer to that question?"
John blinked confusedly at him. "What are you talking about?" he snapped. "I'm sorry that I don't live up to your mighty expectations but some of us mere mortals do happen to have imperfections."
Sherlock stood up with an impatient tut. "You're either in denial or you are completely stupid, I don't know which one is worse-"
"Excuse me! I am not the one who is acting completely irrationally here!" John retorted, conscious of how tightly his fists were balled. "I was trying to apologise-"
"By denying anything ever happened," Sherlock said sourly, narrowing his eyes at him.
"Nothing did happen!" John burst out in frustration.
"Excuse me!"
The two boys froze at the sound of Father Theobald's indignant voice. John peered up sheepishly at the pulpit. Father Theobald glowered down at him. He was still dressed in his vestment.
"What do you two think you're doing?" he said, looking between them. "This is no place for fighting!"
"I'm sorry, Father," John said hurriedly, glancing at Sherlock.
"You've caused enough trouble today, Mr. Watson," he said coldly. "I think you and Mr. Holmes can stay here and clean up the storage room. It's about time you boys learnt some respect for the chapel. It's not just a playground you can mess about in."
"But sir!" John protested. "We weren't fighting! We were just talking!"
He glared at Sherlock. Why wasn't he helping him?
"Quiet," Theobald snapped. "You'll stay here until it gleams like the sun, you understand me? I don't care if it takes all day! Now get moving or I'll report you to your grade coordinator."
John stared at him in disbelief and then reluctantly turned and stalked towards the storage room at the far end of the chapel. It was always cluttered with unused pews, hymn books that were probably as old as the school, the cleaner's mops and buckets and various other useless things. There was a long, wide desk taking up the entire back wall and covered in old sheet music.
John looked over it in silent indignation.
"This is all your fault," he shot at Sherlock as he came in the door.
"How so?" Sherlock said placidly.
"You just stood there like an idiot and didn't say anything!" John burst out.
"There's nothing I could say that would change Father Theobald's mind when he's decided that there's a troublemaker in his chapel," Sherlock said, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. "And the fact that he doesn't like you doesn't help."
John scoffed. "He likes me fine. He's just pissed that I came in late."
"There you go again," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "You're so desperate to be approved of. Why would you want Father Theobald to like you? He's a sanctimonious prig who recites the same five sermons over and over. Charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. Charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. Charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. You'd think he'd just tell us we're all going to hell and be done with it, because there is certainly none of that in this school."
"I was trying to get us out of trouble, not suck up," John said, nudging a mouldy mop head with his foot. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend all day stuck in here."
"You mean stuck in here... with me," Sherlock said coldly.
"No, that isn't what I meant," John retorted. "But maybe it would be best if we spent less time with each other. We're clearly not good for each other." He didn't know when he had ever said something that he had meant less.
Sherlock shrugged and looked away. "If that's really how you feel. After this we never have to talk to each other again if we don't want to."
"What about the play?" John said sharply.
"I don't care about the damned play," Sherlock spat with an amount of venom that took John aback.
"That's a lie," he said stubbornly. "You've put as much work into it as me."
Sherlock sent him a withering look. "Are you really this obtuse? Why do you think I even looked twice at that stupid thing?"
John bristled. "It is not stupid!"
"Why do you think I allowed you, of all people, into my life?" Sherlock said loudly, his eyes uncomfortably fixed on him.
John shook his head, confusion and frustration and anger merging together in one frenetic ball inside of him. He didn't know what he had wanted Sherlock to say, but this felt wildly off the mark. His head was beginning to throb again.
"What are you talking about?" he said hoarsely, staring at Sherlock with every limb tingling.
"You really are phenomenally stupid," Sherlock said sourly. "All this time I thought you were different from those other idiots, but maybe you really are just like them."
"You don't know the first thing about me!" John said angrily. "You think I invaded your life? That's bloody rich!"
"Oh, please," Sherlock snapped, his eyes flashing. "So I found your stupid magazine. So what? You need to get over yourself."
"You don't know the first thing about me," John breathed again.
"I know you better than you know yourself," Sherlock said, straightening up and taking a step towards him. "I always will."
John jerked back, feeling bewildered. "You're an idiot," he spat, turning away.
He felt Sherlock's hand grip his wrist. He tried to yank himself free but Sherlock's grip was surprisingly strong. He pulled him roughly around to face him. John's feeling of being paralysed was returning.
Panic and shock jolted through him as Sherlock raised a hand and touched his cheek. His fingers were cold and smooth, one of them slid down and touched his lips. The look on Sherlock's face became mingled with something approaching desperation as his fingertips came into contact with John's mouth. But a moment later it had vanished.
"What... are you..." John managed to stammer, while the muscles in his mouth seemed to be rapidly shutting down.
One of Sherlock's hands suddenly tightened around the nape of his neck and painfully forced him forward. A split second later, John's mouth came abruptly into contact with Sherlock's. Inside of him it was as though every emotion he had felt in the last few months was being released like something wild captured in a jar.
Sherlock's mouth moved almost aggressively over his, violently bruising his lips. John didn't know if he was reciprocating or not. He felt frozen with shock.
Sherlock's hands clamped around his waist and fingers curled into the fabric of his woollen pullover, forcing him harder against him and seeming not to care whether he was hurting him or not. John's hands had somehow found their way into Sherlock's hair and he was clinging so hard to him that he was sure it must have been painful. Even if it was, Sherlock did not complain.
He spun them both around and forced John against the desk that just moments ago Sherlock had been leaning against. John felt the desk forced painfully into the soft flesh beneath his hips, but the pain barely registered. John didn't think he could have possibly been pressed any closer to Sherlock, but Sherlock seemed to want to pull him harder and harder against him until he could hardly breathe.
Sherlock forced his mouth open and pressed his tongue inside, running it along the line of John's bottom lip. John shuddered violently. He felt Sherlock's tongue touch his and his eyes flickered open. A voice in his mind was screaming for him to stop, but he couldn't.
Only when he was desperate for air did he tear his mouth from Sherlock's and lean back. His body felt hot, his clothes were sticking to him and he could taste Sherlock in his mouth. He couldn't quite name the taste but it was there, on his tongue, on his lips, in his saliva. Sherlock reluctantly loosened his grip.
He couldn't speak. He didn't know what to say and his mouth didn't seem to want to form words. Sherlock's pallid complexion was flushed pink and his hair was sticking up from where John's fingers had attacked it. John could feel that he was straining against the confines of his tapered jeans. His mind was a confused fog.
Sherlock leant forward so that his mouth was just inches from John's ear. His shuddery breath sent goosebumps coursing down his neck. "You don't know how long I've waited-"
His words were cut off by the screech of the heavy storage room door opening. John shoved him away with all his might, staring at the door in panic and trying to blink the arousal out of his eyes. Father Theobald frowned between them, his wrinkled forehead furrowed so deep it looked like a small canyon had formed on his face.
"Fighting again!" he said in a tone of outrage. "In my store room!"
John didn't dare move. He could feel he was hard and the terror of Father Theobald's shrivelled, old blue eyes seeing it was nothing short of intense. Sherlock was breathing like he'd just outrun a bull but otherwise he looked calm. John didn't know how anyone with their clothes skewed to that extent could appear so content.
"Sorry, sir," John gasped.
"You," Father Theobald jerked his head at Sherlock, "get out and collect up the hymn books. That should keep you out of trouble for a few minutes."
He held the door open for Sherlock. Sherlock glanced back at John with an unreadable expression and then did as he was told. The door slammed behind him and John was alone.
End of Chapter Eight