You are mine. I am yours. Let's not fuck around.
Chapter Twelve:
John ran his thumb along the edge of the stapled play. It was about 50 pages, 20k words long. There had been a word limit of 25,000 so they were well within it but he had a niggling feeling that when he got it back again, covered in the scrawl marks of Hurst's red pen, he would want to add more to it than the word limit would allow.
He stole a glance at his partner opposite him. The class was clustered in their various partnerships, waiting to be summoned to surrender their creative attempts. Marty was seated a bare few inches to his right elbow, but still too sulky and shamefaced to be looking at anyone at the moment. John had never known anyone to take a blow to their ego with such ferocious self-pity. Not that he regretted the absence of the boy's usual jibes. Even at football practice he tended to keep his head down and said next to nothing.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's hand resting on the desk in front of him. His own fingers gave a slight, almost unnoticeable twitch, as though they were dying to wrap themselves around Sherlock's. They had been wrapped around his that morning when they had stolen away to a far, unseen corner of the grounds to indulge their morning need for each other. They saw each other every night and every day but it hardly seemed enough.
It wasn't enough.
John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock's and found that he was being watched. Sherlock's stern expression hardly softened when he looked at him, but there was an almost indistinguishable heat to the boy's eyes when he looked at him that only John could detect.
John gave a shiver, though the room was clammy from the heating and forced himself to look away. He might give into temptation and smile if he continued looking at Sherlock. He could feel it gathering at the corners of his mouth. He had thought about what Sherlock had done to him every night since that night. It wasn't just a sticky recount of meaningless pleasure. Or at least he would prefer to think it wasn't, as sticky as those recounts could become.
"Watson. You're next."
John jerked his head up, hoping the colour to his cheeks would be ascribed to the overzealous heating system. Hurst nodded his head to the pile of plays, short stories and movie scripts already towering beside him. John couldn't help feeling intimidated as he dropped his script on the pile, wondering what he was pitting himself again.
"Thank you, John," Hurst said, glancing up at him through his wonky spectacles.
John said nothing and returned to his seat. Marty jerked his head up when he fell into the chair next to him, as though he had been woken from a deep stupor. With almost alarming speed, his eyes snapped towards Holmes.
"You know why they stuck you with that cunt, don't you?" Marty said in a voice just loud enough to carry to Sherlock's ears.
John jerked his head in Marty's direction, very interested to hear Marty's theory. Clearly more interested than Sherlock, who hadn't moved or even looked up. "Why?" he asked quietly.
"You're the only one who won't give him the kicking he fucking deserves," Marty growled, looking away.
Sherlock shot him a contemptuous look and said nothing. John felt sheepish. For a few panicked moments, he had thought Marty about to say something very different. John risked a look at Sherlock. There was something about Sherlock's deadpan expression that made him want to laugh out loud.
Sherlock was completely unafraid of Marty and it made John terrified and at the same time, it was thrilling to see Marty challenged and crossed. John wished he had the guts Sherlock did.
The bell rang for lunch and there was a mass chorus of chairs scraping the wooden floor as the boys hastened to escape. John collected his pencil case and stuffed it into his bag. Across from him, Sherlock hadn't moved. He had taken to leaving the classroom last. John thought it was to avoid the crowd of people who disliked him more than ever, but he also suspected it was so John could make his excuses to his friends and get away to see him without raising too much suspicion.
"Hey!" Hurst called irritably as the first few boys were already pouring out of the classroom door. "Wait! Come back in here for a minute!"
They reluctantly returned. Hurst cast a look over the impatient faces.
"Principal Harvey wants to see all of you in the assembly hall for a special meeting," he said, seeming to know that this news wouldn't go over well. "You're to eat and then go directly to the hall at a quarter past one. The whole grade will be there."
There was an immediate swell of protests and groans. Marty and Billy were particularly vocal in their displeasure. Behind him, John heard Marty call Harvey a series of particularly colourful names.
"Well, it wasn't my idea," Hurst said with a shrug. "Go and get some lunch. Don't be late. They'll probably call the roll, so they'll know if you're skiving."
John didn't know whether that was an empty threat or not, but he knew he couldn't risk his absence being noticed. He took his time in leaving and purposely knocked the contents of his bag onto the floor in the corridor to shake off his friends. He told them not to wait for him and anxiously watched until they had disappeared around the corner.
"Good old Harvey," came a voice from behind him, as soon as the rest of the class had dispersed. "Apt as ever at ensuring our lives resolve around his self-conscious concerns."
John jerked around. "I wish you wouldn't do that."
Sherlock smirked and took a step towards to him. "Did I scare you?"
"You always scare me," John said, resisting the urge to brush back the stray strands of Sherlock's hair from his pale forehead. "You shouldn't piss Marty off. He'll kill you one of these days."
Sherlock shrugged with an expression of complete unconcern. "Are you hungry?"
John knew there could only be one answer to that. "Not in the slightest."
John didn't entirely know how, but Sherlock had managed to secure several hiding places for them to spend their brief snatches of time together. In unused classrooms, nooks under staircases and corridors that didn't look like they had been used in years. And the photography dark room. Sherlock had somehow managed to secure a key. John preferred not to ask how.
John glanced up and down the empty corridor while Sherlock unlocked the door, with almost frustrating ease.
"Hurry up, will you!" he hissed. "What if someone catches us?"
"They're all in the cafeteria," Sherlock replied calmly, opening the door and stepping back for John.
John tentatively stepped inside. When they said "dark room", they really really meant it. He stuck his hands out in front of him, remembering the first time he'd been in there when he'd collided with a desk and almost dislocated his knee.
There was one light switch in the entire room and it was in the far corner. He leant against the desk and waited while Sherlock made his way stealthily across to turn it on. Watery, yellowy light filled the room. It was so dim that it barely lit anything beyond a metre directly underneath it. It also gave the room a sickly, sallow look that John didn't entirely like.
Sherlock dropped his bag onto the floor next to John's and came back to him. He always smelt faintly of cigarettes and medicine.
"You look horrible in that lighting," John noted. "Like an emaciated skeleton."
"Well, you look like a yellowing midget," Sherlock replied, doing what John had so desperately wanted to and brushing a warm hand along the curve of John's forehead.
John gripped the corners of Sherlock's collar and yanked him forward. "We only have fifteen minutes," he said. "No time for niceties."
Sherlock closed the gap between them before John could. John was taken by surprise by the sudden collision of their two bodies. He gasped and Sherlock immediately took advantage of his momentarily opened mouth to plunge his tongue inside.
John closed his eyes on the ugly lighting and pressed himself against Sherlock. It was always difficult for him to get his arms around Sherlock's neck the way he wanted to. He satisfied himself with resting them on Sherlock's broad but distinctly delicate shoulders.
Sherlock's mouth was surprisingly dominant when they kissed. He always demanded more and more from John, he always wanted to kiss him deeper and harder than John was used to. He had given up trying to hide his bewilderment. As gratifying as it would have been to have the upper hand over Sherlock's all-knowing psyche, it was useless trying to hide anything from Sherlock. He always knew.
Sherlock moved his mouth down to John's neck. He seemed to have mapped out all of John's most sensitive spots in a few hours and he could reduce John to a puddle of goo in a much briefer amount of time. He paused only to grip John's waist and deposit him on the desk to get better access to his flesh playground. John had to spread his legs to allow Sherlock close enough to get to his neck. He didn't mind, except he was already hard as a rock.
Sherlock gave a soft chuckle as he felt John's erection pin against him. Damn the cheapskates who had designed the school uniform. If it had been just a fraction thicker, it wouldn't have been so goddamn obvious.
Before John could retort, Sherlock was kissing him again and the protest died on his mouth. He gripped Sherlock's waist to steady himself, privately wishing he could make Sherlock emit half of the humiliating sounds he did. Holmes's hands roamed from his waist to the buttons along his shirt.
John gaped at him. "No-Sher-"
Too late. Cold fingers slid underneath his opened shirt, pinching teasingly at his nipple and forcing a violent shiver from his entire body.
"Uh-Gu-Sherlock..." John said thickly, rolling his hips up against Sherlock.
Sherlock moaned and broke away. He was panting and had an unusual flush of colour to his pallid complexion. John leant forward, eager to have Sherlock's soft mouth on his again. To his surprise, Sherlock stepped away.
"We need to go to that meeting," he said, remarkably calm for someone who's mouth was so red.
"What?" John said in disbelief. "Fuck, Sherlock. You can't just kiss someone like that and-"
"If I continue kissing you like that, I may not be able to contain myself and be forced to deflower you in the Redverse dark room," Sherlock said archly.
John flushed. "Sherlock!" he spluttered.
"Besides, we need to keep up appearances," Sherlock said, flattening his hair. "Can't take the risk that someone will notice."
John slid off of the desk and did his buttons up. "You're a horny bastard," he muttered.
"Look who's talking."
John narrowed his eyes at him. "Let's just go."
Sherlock looked away to hide a smirk and went across to turn the lights out. John stumbled towards the door and out into the blinding sunshine.
"How do I look?" John said, nervously patting down his hair.
Sherlock followed him and closed the door. He turned and studied John's face. "You look like you've been sucking face."
John glanced around. "So when-"
Sherlock smacked a brief kiss to his lips and turned on his heel. "Meet me at the football stairs," he said over his shoulder.
John stared after him, his face still burning. He shook his head and headed in the other direction.
...
Sherlock purposely took the longest route possible to the assembly hall to give John a few minutes to get inside. The outside of the hall seemed quiet, so he slipped inside and took a seat in the empty back row. He scanned the sea of heads in front of him until his eyes fell on John's blonde hair near the front, next to Billy's unmistakeable form.
None of the other teachers were present, just Harvey's walrus-like figure behind the pulpit. There was an odd collection of what looked like junk in front of him. Some of it looked suspiciously like broken bottles and empty cigarette packets from where Sherlock was seated.
The assembly had already begun and Harvey's voice echoed around the hall like a loud speaker.
"As you well know," he said gravely, his hands carefully positioned away from the pile of rubbish in front of him, "Redverse prides itself on the discipline and respect of its students. That is why it grieves me to have to speak to you on such an unpleasant subject."
Sherlock thought he knew where this was going.
"Contraband is not just against our rules, it is unlawful for people of your age to possess it," Harvey continued, still sounding like he was delivering a eulogy. "The school dumpster is not a dumping ground for banned material. It is purely for school use and is not emptied often enough for large amounts of rubbish to be stuffed into it willy-nilly."
He sounded extremely displeased, but someone was stupid enough to titter. Harvey's eyes snapped towards the perpetrator.
"You may laugh, but I can tell you now that we will be taking this matter very seriously," he said sharply. He picked up a filthy beer bottle between the very tips of his fingers and lifted it up for them to see. "Alcohol is strictly forbidden on school grounds, as are cigarettes." He let it drop with a heavy clunk. "And certain reading material also." He licked his lips uncomfortably and plucked a very crinkled and ripped magazine from the heap.
Sherlock's stomach dropped. Even in its current state he recognised the magazine. It had been branded into his mind for weeks. He was impressed with John's initiative, though it perhaps wasn't the most creative or sensible place to dump it.
"This is a tiny collection of what was found," Harvey said loudly over the ensuing remarks and sniggers. "All of it is against school rules."
"Not to mention nature," Sherlock heard someone close to him say in a low voice. "Who's do you think it is?"
Sherlock fixed his eyes on John. John hadn't moved. A seat down from him, Marty was saying something in a fairly animated tone, but John didn't look like he was listening.
The general murmur of speculation had not died down. Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before someone pointed the finger at him. He knew it and didn't care.
Harvey held up a hand to quiet the gradually increasing rumble of voices. Silence did not fall. Most of the boys completely ignored Harvey's feeble attempt at discipline. Marty's voice was particularly distinguishable, though Sherlock fortunately could not make out what he was saying.
"Silence!" Harvey barked, surprising the room into quiet. It was the first time they had seen Harvey lose his temper. "This is not a game! Trust me, we will catch those who continue to break the rules. If we discover that contraband has been brought into the school again, the entire grade will be banned from leaving school grounds during the term."
Predictably this threat did not go down well. There was nothing short of an uproar. Sherlock sat silently in his seat. He wasn't quite as gullible as his classmates and didn't believe that Harvey would really carry out such a threat when he knew how many ill-tempered and bored students he could have on his hands if he refused them what they saw as their God given right to go to town and get drunk during the weekends.
"You want to know who's fucking magazine that is?"
Marty was out of his seat. Along the row John had sunk very low in his. The indignant finger that was jabbed in Sherlock's direction was not unexpected or unwelcome. He knew it was inevitable.
"That dickhead's! Why don't you just chuck him out! The guy's a fucking nut and a-"
"Mr. Hester, take your seat!" Harvey bawled, seeming to realise his mistake. "There's no reason to panic! If all students follow the rules then all weekend freedoms will be retained."
Marty fell into his seat with a sound between a hiss and a scoff. John hadn't moved an inch in his. He seemed to have gone rigid.
The noise had died down to a quiet, discontented murmur. Harvey agitatedly stroked his moustache. "That will be all today. I'm confident that you will rise to the challenge as leaders of the school. You may go."
Sherlock waited outside the assembly hall until John finally emerged. He was one of the last to leave. Sherlock saw him excuse himself from his friends further up the corridor and head in the opposite direction. Sherlock impatiently waited until the rest of the grade had dispersed and then followed him.
He was almost at the stairs when there was a rough yank on the back of his jumper. Before he could react, he found himself pinned against the nearest wall. The back of his head hit the bricks painfully hard. A throng of students passed them and kept walking, barely glancing over their shoulder to where Sherlock was.
He stared at Marty Hester. His fist was balled up in the material of his school jumper so tightly that Sherlock couldn't move. "Afternoon, Hester," he said coolly.
Marty's expression of helpless loathing was always interesting. It was always as though he didn't quite have it within his power to express just how deeply his revulsion of Sherlock went. "If you ever cross me again," he said in a soft, very steady voice, "I'll personally rip your throat out. Got it?"
Sherlock was surprised it had taken this long for Marty's aggressiveness to return but it seemed to have returned with a vengeance. "Cross you?" he said.
Marty's lip curled into a sneer. An unbelievable pain burst through Sherlock's chin. He somehow managed to keep from crying out and struggled to put a hand to his wounded mouth. Marty grunted in satisfaction and released him from his grip. Sherlock grasped his mouth with both hands and watched Marty walk away without a look back.
He hurried to get out before anyone came along and saw him. The cold air stung his bloodied mouth, but he kept going. He could see John's distant figure by the stairs.
"What the hell happened?" John exclaimed as soon as he saw him.
Sherlock touched his mouth. "Nothing," he said. He could taste blood.
John gripped his hand by the wrist and tore it away. "Who the fuck did this? Tell me!"
Sherlock had never seen John so angry. Even in his present state, he felt a thrilled flicker at John's concern. "It's nothing."
John ran a thumb gently along his bottom lip. When he brought it away, it was damp with blood. "I'll kill him," he spat. "I'll kill him with my own hands!"
Sherlock grasped his arm tightly to stop him from trying to go back towards the school. "We can't afford to draw our attention to ourselves," he hissed. "It'll heal. He was just blowing off steam."
John stared at him, anger and agitation fighting for dominance in his fey blue eyes. "You draw too much attention to yourself as it is."
Sherlock couldn't help touching his cheek. "You're the one bringing contraband into the school."
John blushed prettily. "They think it's yours."
"Let them," Sherlock said softly.
He kissed him briefly on the forehead. John's eyes flickered up to his, clearly still ill at ease.
"We should go back to class," he said grudgingly.
Sherlock slipped his cold fingers into John's and held them tight. "I suppose. Will you come to me tonight?"
John went a bit pinker. "Of course."
They walked back towards the school. They let go of each other's hands when they neared the entrance. Sherlock glanced at John's pale features. Sometimes it was better that he was ignorant of some things.
He lifted a hand to his sore mouth. Definitely some things.
...
Sherlock insisted John went to the common room that night until the dorms were quiet enough for him to slip into Sherlock's room. He had to wait until Billy was asleep as well, but luckily he was a very deep sleeper.
Sherlock said it was because John needed to make sure he didn't raise suspicions by being absent too often, but John had a feeling it was because Sherlock didn't want him commenting on his mouth. John had completely intended to find Marty and beat him senseless but he had come to (grudgingly) accept Sherlock's argument that it would be stupid and irrational. He had to keep the facade going, it was still early days.
Marty and Billy and a couple of the other boys were playing poker at the table. The rest were watching television. John spotted Ben sitting by himself in the furthest arm chair.
John was summoned to join the card game but he shrugged them off and sat with Ben. He could hardly look at Marty without wanting to punch him in the face.
Ben didn't speak when he sat down beside him and didn't look up. John shifted in his seat, trying to think of something to break the silence with. He realised too late that he may have been interrupting someone who didn't want to be spoken to.
He sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, staring at the television without watching it and wishing he had just told Sherlock to shove it and stayed far, far away.
He finally got up the nerve to say something and remarked, somewhat sheepishly, about the cold weather. Ben jerked in his seat as though he hadn't even realised someone was near him and turned to look at him. His expression wasn't displeased but neither was it particularly friendly.
"Yeah, it's fucking freezing," he said gruffly, rearranging himself in his armchair and sending a strange look towards the party at the poker table.
John looked over as well. Marty was getting up, saying something very audibly about needing to "take a leak". He made his way out, winking at John as he passed him, though it only made John's desire to hurt him stronger. Billy and the others continued to play for a while until, inevitably, the subject of the assembly was raised.
"So who's do you think it was?" said someone, John didn't see who.
"Holmes's for sure," Billy growled, not taking his eyes off his cards. "He's the only faggot in the school."
John thought that that was an ironic comment as there was a "faggot" sitting in the same room as him that very moment.
"Fucking disgusting," one of the boys at the table remarked.
"Maybe it was bought as a joke," he interjected feebly, but no one seemed to hear him.
"Marty's going to teach that bastard a lesson anyway," Ben spoke suddenly, taking him by surprise.
John glanced around as a few heads nodded in agreement. "What do you mean?" he said sharply, feeling an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach.
Ben glanced at him. "He's pissed. You don't piss Marty off unless you want to get fucked up."
"Good riddens!" barked Billy. "Can we play for fuck's sake? Who gives a fuck about fucking Holmes."
John stared at the floor. He felt sick. But Sherlock knew what he was doing. He could handle Marty. John sat a bit straighter in his chair. Sherlock had proven he wasn't frightened of Marty.
But Marty had friends. And Sherlock didn't. John sunk lower in his chair again, gnawing on his bottom lip. He hoped that that wasn't what it came down to.
End of Chapter Twelve