Help me. I'm holding on for dear life. Won't look down. Won't open my eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Two:
It was freezing. John had forgotten how little coverage the school's football uniform really provided. He felt bizarrely exposed as he walked down across the crunching sea of gravel from the doors of the school to the steps leading down to the vast, soggy playing field. It had been raining steadily since they'd been back at school, as though to add a further layer of gloom to the entire establishment.
As though it needed anything to dampen the already melancholic cloud that was hanging low over every corridor and classroom. The teachers seemed to feel it, seemed to know that something over Christmas had sapped their students of their usual boisterous tactlessness.
Or so it seemed to John. There was something dazed about his team, like they had been put through some form of cruel and unusual punishment and were still recovering from the shock. He had a feeling that it had something to with Billy's unfortunate experience with the fire ants.
He shivered inside the thin confines of his football shirt. Sherlock looked at him. "Are you cold?"
They were huddled close at the top of the stairs. Sherlock's pale, slender, cold hand was wrapped in his. They knew they couldn't stay like this for very much longer. The team would be turning up at any second, but Sherlock said he'd probably stay. John was glad he'd offered to stay, because he didn't think he'd be able to bring himself to ask.
"Do you think Billy will be ok?" he asked hesitantly. Sherlock had been very silent about the events of that night and John got the feeling that he didn't want to speak about it.
Sherlock looked down at him, his cheeks flushed with the cold. "He'll be fine. He's lucky he isn't allergic. Those things can kill a-"
He broke off, clearly realising that he wasn't saying the right thing.
He cleared his throat, patting John's hand awkwardly. "He'll be fine."
John couldn't allow himself to think about it too much. His mind seemed unable to rid itself of the sight of Billy being swarmed by a seething mass of seemingly endless orange-headed, black-bodied little creatures. John had taken to lifting up the mattress of his bed every night before he got into it. He was glad that Sherlock didn't see how he crept around his own room, with his arms wrapped around himself, barely daring to touch anything until he had more or less coated his belongings in insect spray. He couldn't get shake the feeling that somewhere, under something was another swarm of fire ants. It made his skin crawl.
"You really need to stop worrying," Sherlock said, astute as always at immediately knowing when John was even slightly ill at ease. "It was just a prank."
John looked at him incredulously. "You don't really believe that do you? He was in serious pain."
"You can't tell me that not a teensy, weensy little part of you didn't think that Billy... well, sort of deserved it?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows wryly.
John frowned at him. "Nobody deserves that, Sherlock."
He knew he sounded like the spokesperson for a sensible drinking campaign, but he didn't care. Nobody did deserve that. Billy hadn't killed anyone, hadn't committed some hideous crime. And even if he had, who were they to dispense justice?
Sherlock rolled his eyes, with a half-shrug. He untangled himself from John's arms. John reluctantly let him, though he immediately missed the warm weight. "Why don't we talk about something else," he said, eyeing John critically. "Like football. Let's talk about football."
"I don't want to talk about football," John said, narrowing his eyes. He walked past him to the edge of the steps, staring down at the sodden grass below. The shallow puddle in the right goal had filled up with water again. "If there is one thing I do not want to talk about, it's football."
"Then let's talk about how you insist on putting yourself through this torture when you know that you'd be infinitely happier if you just let it go," Sherlock said, undeterred from behind him. "You hate it."
John turned. Sherlock was watching him with a sharp expression, his arms firmly folded. "I don't hate it." It was probably the stupidest lie he had ever told.
"I don't know why you do this to yourself," Sherlock said, sounding infuriatingly like a hospital ward matron whose patient insisted on slamming their head repeatedly against a wall.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, partly just to annoy him. "Look. I better get down there. They'll probably be here soon."
Sherlock shrugged. He patted his trouser pocket where John knew he had his cigarettes hidden. He would probably sit behind some trees in the field smoking fag after fag. John, no matter how attractive he found Sherlock's alluring bad habit, never got the temptation to try one. He didn't like the idea of something having power over him, though he got the feeling that nothing had power over Sherlock. He could have quit any time he wanted to; he just didn't want to.
"Well. I guess I'll go for a walk or something," Sherlock said. They walked down the steps to the edge of the playing field. John felt an overwhelming desire to just follow Sherlock to the furthest edge of the grounds and stay there, far away from prying eyes but he knew he couldn't.
They said a wordless goodbye and began across the field, water oozing through his football boots. There seemed to be a shallow, unseen sea covering the greater part of the grass.
He squelched across to centre of the pitch. He could see Sherlock's pale figure wandering along the far edge of the grounds, his hands buried in his pockets. He had a feeling that Sherlock needed time to think. He had been very quiet the past few days since the Billy incident. He spoke very little about it, but John got the overwhelming feeling that he was thinking about it unceasingly. John wished he knew why.
He shivered inside his uniform, wrapping his arms around himself in a fruitless attempt to protect his bare skin. He supposed he would be the same if Sherlock had been in the same situation he had been in. Sherlock had grazed against him on his way to get Harvey. It had been his silent way of comforting John. John had needed him. He'd never seen anything so gruesome in his life. All he could think of doing was getting out, away from the scene. He claimed he had run to get Blake- which was not an absolute lie, but his motive had not been so honourable. He had just needed to get away.
He sighed to himself and looked back over to where Sherlock had been. He was gone. Melted into the trees surrounding the Redverse grounds. He was fairly apt at hiding himself.
He looked up towards the stairs. The team had finally appeared, looking like a procession of black and red clad militia from where John stood. Or a firing squad. He shuffled his feet in the soggy grass.
Ben was the first to arrive. He still hadn't forgiven Marty for kicking him out of his room. He hadn't moved in with Sherlock yet, but John knew it would be any day now. He couldn't help feeling a foolish twinge of jealousy. It seemed unjust that Ben got to slip so effortlessly into Sherlock's sphere and John was barred from it. He had agonized over whether to offer to take Ben's place, but he knew it would be too suspicious. Too inexplicably selfless to be innocent.
"Hey," Ben said, dropping the football into the grass and causing a small explosion of mud onto their legs.
"Hi," John said, looking over his shoulder to the rest of the team. Billy wasn't there of course. He was still at home recovering. It was strange how small the team looked without Billy's hulking mass towering over the rest.
Marty was bringing up the rear, looking ashen faced as he always did these days. Nobody knew what to make of him anymore. His melancholy seemed to dampen everything around him and was one of the main reasons John thought Redverse seemed so grey these days. John never thought he'd miss Marty's loud, crude voice, but without it Redverse seemed unearthly silent.
"What are we going to do about Billy?" one of the boys asked sullenly.
"We'll have to use sub," John replied, looking along the line of his grave team. "Billy might be alright. You never know."
"Yeah right," Ben said. "He got owned by like three thousand poisonous ants." A few of the boys went vaguely green at the thought. "He won't be able to play for weeks."
"We'll have to do the best we can without him," John said, fiddling with the whistle around his neck. "We've been down players before. Look, we had a hiccup last year and now we've lost Billy but that doesn't mean the comp is over."
There were half-hearted mumbles of agreement. John put his hands on his hips, fixing them with what he hoped was his most authoritarian stare.
"Well, if you're all so concerned about our playing future, you better hurry up and give me five laps."
John joined them. Partly because he wanted the burning in his legs to distract him from the uneasy sense that something weird was going on. Something that he couldn't put his finger on. Ben jogged alongside him. With Marty acting so strangely and Billy away, Ben had no one else to hang around with so he stuck increasingly closely to John. He had always been the least obnoxious of his friends, so John didn't mind.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Ben said in a low voice, as they jogged some distance behind the rest of the team. John was very used to the comments about his "short legs" by now and didn't attempt to strain himself to keep up with his taller team mates.
"What does?" he replied, scanning the trees Sherlock had disappeared into as they passed them.
"Being back." Ben wiped a layer of sweat from his top lip. "Feels weird. Marty... ya' know. Shit's different."
John got the feeling he wanted to talk about it somewhat deeper than that, but was concerned John might balk at the thought of anything approaching intelligent conversation. "Yeah. Marty's definitely undergone a rapid transformation."
"Yeah," Ben said, looking quickly at him. "Do you think it's because of that Jim dick?"
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ever since Jim had arrived, the team had collectively decided they didn't like him. They seemed to find him intensely intimidating, especially his closeness to Marty. Personally, John didn't see it. Though there was certainly something... odd about him, John didn't think he was any Marty Hester.
"You can't keep blaming Jim for every little thing that happens to occur," John replied. "Just because you don't like him."
"Who said I don't like him?" Ben retorted.
"You just called him a dick," John pointed out, starting to pant between words.
"Because... he is a dick," Ben puffed. The muddy grass was horrible to run in. John could feel it squelching around in his boots. "But that doesn't mean I don't like him. Marty's a dick too, and I like him fine."
"Except for when he kicks you out of your own room for some kid we've never even spoken to," John quipped. They came to a halt where the rest of the team were congregated in the middle of the swampy pitch.
"When you're ready, form a line," John said, mechanically looking along the trees behind them. "Ben will be goalie."
"More penalty practice?" Marty remarked, making everyone jump at the sound of his increasingly seldom heard voice. "What's the point?"
"It's just as important as any other aspect of the game," John replied, looking at him. "What would you suggest then, Marty?" he added, when nobody spoke to back him up.
"Anything would be better than this," Marty drawled, folding his arms.
John felt a pang of unease, but pushed it away with a roll of his eyes. "And when you're captain, you can decide what we do in practice. Until then, shut up and get in line."
For a moment, he thought Marty was going to argue. He opened his mouth, his blue eyes contemptuously narrowed, but then closed it again with a sulky shrug. Ben glanced at him from his place in the line. John pretended not to see; he didn't need Ben's "told you so" look to know that Marty was definitely acting odd.
Past the heads of his teammates something moving caught his eye. He stared past them to where Sherlock was wandering along the edge of the field, blending in almost seamlessly with the pallid surroundings.
He was not walking alone. John knew, even from two hundred yards away, who he was with.
After practice, the team bypassed showers, preferring to go straight to dinner. For almost the first time in his life, John went with them. He felt filthy and caked with dirt but he was struck by overwhelming curiosity.
The team's table was always a messy affair at dinner, but John had forgotten just how boisterous his teammates could be. In between ducking out of the way of carrot missiles and trying to tune out the lewd talk of various women's body parts, he could just manage a few clear glimpses of Sherlock. He was at his usual table. And he was alone.
John felt a guilty release of relief. He had no right to be relieved, but he was.
"I forgot how fun dinnertime with team is," he mumbled, flicking a carrot out of his spaghetti.
Ben grinned at him from opposite; he had bits of potato in his hair. "It's one hell of a party, huh."
Even without Marty's contributions, the team managed to sustain a fairly hearty, obscene stream of conversation. Marty was silently eating his pasta, with an expression that wordlessly suggested what fate would befall the boy careless enough to aim a food missile in his direction.
After dinner, John slipped away from the team, hoping to steal a couple of hours alone before he was missed. The dorms was almost deserted during dinner. John always felt odd walking the dimly lit corridors by himself. There was something eerie about the endless labyrinth of grey doors and blue carpet.
His heart seemed liable to stop beating where he stood when a hand came into contact with his shoulder, as he was turning into the Grade 12s' corridor.
"Fuck, Marty," he gasped, putting a hand to his chest. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry," Marty said, holding out his hand. "You left this in the common room."
John stared at it. It was a mobile phone, but it wasn't his. "Oh," he said, frowning. "That's no-"
He broke off. Realisation trickled through him like a chill. It was Sherlock's phone. He snatched it out of Marty's hand, for a moment too panicked to think about what he was doing.
"Thanks," he said hastily, stuffing it into his pocket. He met Marty's eye with difficulty, his heart still beating furiously hard.
"No problem," Marty said offhandedly, not looking at him. He was still in his football uniform and smelt overwhelmingly of deodorant.
John stared up at him. It was sometimes odd to him that he had never had any erotic stirrings for Marty. He was good looking. In an arrogant douchebag sort of way.
John gave himself a mental shake. He could just imagine what Marty would do to him if he knew that he was standing there wondering why he'd never wanted to have sex with him. John squirmed where he was. That image made him feel slightly ill. "Well, thanks. I better... ah, go."
He took a step back. Marty looked at him. "Ok. See ya, golden boy." It was the first time he had used his nickname for John in a long while. John secretly hoped that it was a sign that he was becoming his old self again. But that hope was immediately when Marty went on to say, in an stiff and slightly mechanical way: "Be careful with that. Shouldn't leave it lying around."
He nodded at the pocket John had shoved Sherlock's phone inside. John didn't reply. He watched Marty until he was out of sight and then dove into his room, hastily turning Sherlock's phone on.
He had never used it before and it took a few attempts to figure out how to unlock it. When he did, he was immediately confronted by a small box demanding a four numbered code. John breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way Marty could have got in there.
He sunk down on his bed, relief rushing into every limb. The thought that Marty had had this in his hand, had had virtually John's and Sherlock's entire relationship within this one, small vessel made him almost sick to his stomach.
"Oh God," he said, resting his head in his hands. "The fucking photos..."
He could just imagine his friends' faces if they ever saw their indomitable captain in that state. He could almost feel the blows while he sat there.
...
"Don't be so fast to run away, Sherlock!"
Sherlock's skin crawled at the sound of the melodic voice. He tried to fasten his pace but the undergrowth was sodden and his school shoes weren't the most practical footwear for marching through the wilderness.
"What. Are you stalking me now, Jim?" he snarled, furiously shaking the leaves out of his hair.
He came to a halt in front of a huge, boggy puddle. He heard Jim come to a halt behind him. He smelt like a medicine cabinet. It was wildly out of place against the cold, fresh scent of the trees.
"I feel so rejected, Sherlock," he said breathlessly, the mirth never leaving his voice. "Why won't you be my friend?"
Sherlock turned on him. He found himself closer to him than he had anticipated. Jim seemed to have been standing little more than an inch behind him. Jim's dark eyes flashed with amusement as Sherlock took a clumsy step back and sunk a few inches into the muck.
"Did you do it?" he snapped, wrenching himself up out of the puddle.
"Do what?" Jim said, cocking his head to the side. He was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock, but the uneven ground made them roughly the same height. Sherlock couldn't move backwards without finding himself sinking into the mud or forwards without creating undesirable closeness between him and Moriarty.
"You know what," Sherlock snapped.
Jim smirked. There was glee in every feature. It lit his face up with a sickening glow. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you feel sorry for that lump of useless flesh?" he said with a shrill laugh.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and then pushed past him, desperate to get out of the damp undergrowth.
"I should have killed the fucker!" Jim shouted after him, as he burst out onto the cold, sunlit field.
He could see John and his teammates doing laps around the pitch. John was far behind them, his small, blonde figure obvious beside Ben Greer's darker figure. Sherlock didn't want to leave. He felt like he had made a promise to John that he'd stay. He hadn't, but it seemed callous to leave John here when he'd been so nervous about his first practice.
Unfortunately, he was no longer alone to enjoy the sight of John in his football uniform.
"Don't you want to know how I did it?" Jim appeared beside him.
"No," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
He started walking back along the edge of the field towards the steps.
"You do!" Jim called in a sing-song voice from behind him. "I know you do, Sherlock!"
Sherlock clenched his teeth together. His name sounded like a taunt every time Jim used it.
"Tell me then," Sherlock spat, turning to him. "Tell me how you almost got an innocent boy killed."
Jim looked at him, his eyes running eagerly over every line of his face. He gave a burst of almost manic, stunted laughter. "Oh! That is good. Do you use that reverse psychology on everyone, Sherlock? It's very good. You certainly had me fooled. I know how much you care about fuckwits, Sherlock."
"What do you want?" Sherlock growled.
Jim took a step towards him, the smirk carefully tucked back in the corners of his mouth. "I could destroy this school, you know. I could destroy every student, every teacher. I could reduce it to rubble. Would you like me to?"
Sherlock stared at him in silence. His palms felt clammy against the cold, damp air. Jim's eyes were fixed intently on him. The glee had abruptly left his eyes, to be replaced by cold blackness. A void emptiness.
"You hate this school," Jim said softy. Sherlock could sense him moving closer to him, seeping into his personal space and dampening the air around them with poison but he didn't move. "You would destroy it if you got the chance, wouldn't you?"
"That's the difference between you and me," Sherlock said quietly. "I don't set out to destroy something just because I don't like it."
Jim gave a low laugh and reached towards him. Sherlock felt like his throat had contracted and he couldn't move. Jim straightened his collar in a mocking fashion, his eyes never leaving his face. His cold fingers grazed the curve of Sherlock's neck. "I could destroy your whole world, Sherlock."
Sherlock finally seemed to remember where he was again and roughly pushed Jim away from him. "Just stay away from me," he snapped. He wanted to add "and John" but he knew that revealing his relationship with John to Jim Moriarty would be an extremely stupid thing to do.
"They tell me you're brilliant," Jim breathed, his demeanour rapidly changing again. His hands were still raised from where he had been adjusting Sherlock's collar. They almost seemed to be trembling in the air. "Prove it. Get me expelled."
"I could tell them what you did," Sherlock said, almost transfixed by the look that had come into Jim's eyes so suddenly and sharply.
Jim seemed to snap back to life. He gave a delighted laugh. "Let's not be obvious, Sherlock."
Sherlock glanced back over at the team on the field before he could stop himself. Jim turned to look too with an extravagant movement of his head.
"Oh, oh, oh! Don't tell me!" he exclaimed, looking back at Sherlock with an almost wild expression. "Which one is it, Sherlock? Which one don't you want me getting close to?"
Sherlock didn't reply. He could see John's figure out of the corner of his eye. His throat felt dry. His body tingled with the desire to look. But if he looked, he'd give away everything to Moriarty in a single careless glance.
"Don't worry," Jim said, with a derisive wink. "I'll find out who it is sooner or later, Sherlock. I know you can't keep your hand out of the honey pot for long."
Sherlock watched him stroll back up towards the steps, whistling and chuckling to himself in turn. He looked back out to where John and the team were.
Jim was disappearing up the stairs. He never looked back, but there was an infuriating sense that he knew that Sherlock was watching him. Sherlock knew it would have sounded crazy if he'd said that aloud to anyone. But everything that had happened between him and Jim would have sounded crazy to an outsider. The vaguest of teasing threats, the sense that Jim knew him, the sense that he intended him harm. Sherlock didn't know what to make of it.
What concerned him most of all was that beneath the obligatory layer of indignity and disapproval, was a spark of excitement. He tried to extinguish it beneath a growing layer of disgust and irritation at himself, but it was a determined little ember.
He found himself following Jim before he was fully aware of what he was doing. There was only fifteen minutes to go until the end of practice. John wouldn't miss him.
By the time he got to the doors of the school, Jim was gone. He seemed to have evaporated into the air, leaving no sign of muddy footprints or wet leaves on the floor of the corridor. Sherlock scraped his shoes off on the edge of the stairs and went in. He still left vague imprints of dirt behind him on the shiny surface.
He walked blindly through the school, jerking every time he heard footsteps behind him or someone's voice. But it was never him. Just other students. All of whom looked at Sherlock with increasing wariness these days. There seemed to have been an evolution in their dislike from childish aversion to deep-seated suspicion. Sherlock got the impression that they found it somewhat affronting that he wasn't intimidated by Marty, the only Ace card they possessed.
He reached the dorm corridor without having completely made up his mind that that was where he was walking to. He was conscious of people looking at him as he passed. It was more than the usual sneering glances. He knew it. He felt it. Sherlock didn't care if people wanted to stare, but there was something different about having their eyes on him today.
He reached his own door. There was a small cluster of boys around it. He didn't recognise any of them.
"Step aside," he said curtly, ignoring their smirks.
There were sniggers. A few of them glanced at each other. A few moved out of the way, grinning.
"Get out of my way," Sherlock snapped, forcing his way through them. He came to a halt short of his door.
"Serves you right, you gay fuck!"
There were shouts of laughter. Sherlock didn't turn.
Someone had taken a knife to his door. The paint had been scraped away in an endless collage of gay slurs. It was extraordinary. Sherlock had never seen anything like it.
Silently he unlocked his door and slipped inside, shutting out the gleeful crowd. He flattened himself against it, breathing hard and listening to the people still outside, closing in against his door.
"How," he asked the emptiness. "How..."
He stared at the empty bed Ben would soon be occupying. It had been made up with white sheets and the school's ugly grey bedspread. There were still fallen items of clothing and books peppering the floor and most flat surfaces. Sherlock would have to clear it before his new roommate arrived.
...
"Mr. Watson?"
John hastily straightened up from the wall, yanking his bag higher up his arm. Hurst raised an unruly eyebrow at him. There were dark shadows hanging low beneath his eyes, his skin looked paler and more ashen than usual. John didn't remember him ever looking so worn and haggard.
"Sorry to interrupt, sir," he said. "Can I come in?"
"Certainly," Hurst said, stepping back from the door of his office.
John had never been inside Hurst's office. It was cramped and gloomy and extremely unkempt. The only window was hidden behind a dirty, metal blind.
"So, what can I do for you?" Hurst said, falling heavily into a leather office chair behind his desk.
John tentatively took a seat opposite. He always felt awkward in a teacher's office. "I was just hoping... I was wondering why Sherlock and I haven't gotten our play back yet?"
"Play?"Hurst said blankly.
"For English," John said, flushing at the thought that his writing had been so forgettable.
"Oh!" Hurst said. "Of course. Yes." He frowned down at his desk, as though trying to grasp something in the back of his memory. "I thought I gave it back to Sherlock."
John stared at him. "I don't think that's possible, sir."
Hurst looked up, nodding to himself. "No, I remember. I definitely gave it back to Sherlock."
John didn't reply immediately. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to think of something to say besides "that's impossible". Hurst was watching him and he could feel himself beginning to go red. "I... I... Are you certain?"
"Very," Hurst replied, leaning back in his chair with a low groan. "Right before Christmas. He told me he'd tell you."
"He did," John said quietly.
"He must have forgotten about it over Christmas." Hurst shook his head. "It's probably not surprising. I did sort of spring it on him last minute. I'd get onto him as soon as you can though. I think you could still do a very decent rewrite if you really got stuck in over the next few weeks."
John's workload was already piling up. With football on top of everything else, he didn't know how he was going to find the time to rewrite a 20,000 word play. His stomach twisted uncomfortably inside of him.
"I don't know," he said, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
"I'm sure Sherlock will give you a hand," Hurst said bracingly.
John gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to laugh. Though he felt anything but amused. "Yeah. I'm sure. But he's already done so much."
"Well, I'm sure you'll do fine." Hurst gave a wide yawn and sat forward a few inches in his chair. In the poor lighting his skin looked unhealthily like parchment. "It was actually very good."
"Really?" John said dubiously.
"Well, there are a few grammar and punctuation issues," Hurst added. "But I think that with a little work, you could get an A."
"Wow," John said, unable to show much enthusiasm. "Anything else?"
"It might help if you chose a theme," Hurst said. "The storyline was a little convoluted in places. An overarching theme helps things fall more comfortably into place. Good work with the murder mystery though. Not many people can pull them off half as convincingly."
"Thanks," John said, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. "Thanks for your help. I guess I've got a bit of work to do."
"Not too much. Just hunt Sherlock down as soon as you can," Hurst replied.
John gave a low laugh. "Oh, I certainly will."
He left Hurst's office, barely conscious of which direction he was going in. He was almost blinded by anger. He felt like taking Sherlock's phone out of his pocket and smashing it against the nearest wall. Sitting there, listening to Hurst's good-natured excuses for Sherlock had been unbearable. If only he knew. If only he knew just how wrong he was.
He wheeled around the corner into another corridor, darting around people and barely looking up from the floor in front of him.
He found himself in the library. It was where Sherlock spent most of his nights when he wasn't with him. He found him in his usual corner, hunched over a dense textbook with a deteriorating spine.
He didn't look up. John stared at him, hardly able to believe that he couldn't feel the enraged heat radiating off of him. At length he gave the table leg a sharp kick.
Sherlock glanced up at him. "Oh, hi."
"Don't oh hi me," John spat, folding his arms. He wanted to gather every inch of his anger and stay angry. Sherlock had a talent for weaselling his way out of trouble.
"What's wrong now?" Sherlock said, going back to his book.
John gave the table another furious kick. "Where is it?"
Sherlock lifted the book up, frowning at him. "Would you stop that?"
"I should kick you in the head," John snapped. "Where the hell is it? Where did you stash it?"
"Stash wh-"
Realisation bloomed across Sherlock's features. "Oh."
"Oh," John retorted. "Oh. Is that all you've got to say?"
"Why don't we talk about this in private?" Sherlock said, standing and pushing the book into his bag.
"Fine," John said acidly. "At least in private I can punch you in the face."
He stalked back towards the doors of the library. Sherlock trailed after him. John didn't slow his pace. He wanted Sherlock to be out of breath by the time they got back to his room, though Sherlock's legs were longer enough than his to make it a difficult task to keep ahead of him.
"John, slow down," Sherlock snapped, taking a hold of John's sleeve.
They were close to the dorms. John stopped in spite of himself and turned to him, breathing hard. "What?"
"I think we should go somewhere else," Sherlock said, watching him seriously.
"It's late, Sherlock," John said impatiently, pushing the doors open. "No one will see us."
"That's not what I mean," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He followed him inside. "Look, John. I really think we should go somewhere else. We'll go to the dark room or something."
John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I'm not interested in playing games. We're going to talk about this right now."
He walked along to where Sherlock's room was. "John," Sherlock said quietly.
John stopped. His mouth seemed to go dry in his head. He hardly felt Sherlock's hand rest on his arm. He stared at the ruined door, his anger trickling away in a rush of cold disbelief. "Who did this?"
Sherlock appeared next to him. He didn't look upset. Somehow that made it worse. Like Sherlock somehow expected this treatment. "I don't know. They didn't exactly leave their name."
"I'm going to kill them." John was trembling. "I'm going to kill them. Just tell me, Sherlock. I'll fucking rip them limb from limb. I'll fucking destroy them."
"Would you keep your voice down?" Sherlock hissed, glancing around. "Get inside."
he ushered him into the room. John didn't argue, didn't struggle. When they were safely inside, he couldn't think of anything to say. There was nothing he could say aloud when in his mind all he could think was how he wanted to find the culprit and beat them until his knuckles broke.
"Look, it's not a big deal," Sherlock said, walking across to the window and pulling the curtains across. "They're getting me a new door tomorrow."
"What else?" John said, staring unfocusedly at him.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock said, leaning against the wall and folding his arms across his school jumper.
"What are they going to do about this?" John said, lips thinned.
Sherlock watched him. "You know what Redverse is like," he said gently, as though John was in danger of becoming hysterical again. "Unless my parents call up and demand they hunt down the culprit, which is astronomically unlikely, they won't lift a finger. I'm not exactly its main concern at the moment."
"I don't believe this," John said. He paced across the floor, running his hands through his hair. "I don't fucking believe this."
Sherlock took a step forward, catching his wrists in his hands and pulling them down beside him. "Calm down. It's okay. Really. I couldn't care less what those bastards think of me. You know I don't care."
"That's not the point," John said weakly, staring up at him. "You know it's not."
He pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip and turned back towards the door. The sick design of slander was an inch away on the other side. John felt so sick he could hardly speak. He had to turn his back on it.
"I don't know how you can just stand there," he said in a low voice. "How can you let them get away with it?"
Sherlock sighed, looking down at the floor. "They're not getting away with anything. They're just stupid kids. They don't even know what half those words mean."
John exhaled softly, sinking down onto the unmade covers of Sherlock's bed and resting his head against his hands.
"So where is it?" he said at length, breaking the grim silence.
Sherlock looked at him.
"The play."
"Oh," Sherlock glanced over to where his school bag was. "In there."
John went across to it and unzipped it. Like most of Sherlock's belongings, it was incredibly messy. Books and papers were crammed inside, with a vast assortment of what seemed to be junk.
"Gross," he said, picking out a sodden empty cigarette packet with his finger and thumb. "What is your aversion to cleanliness?"
"My thoughts work best when my surroundings aren't sterile," Sherlock replied coolly with a sniff.
John rolled his eyes and dropped it into the rubbish bin next to Sherlock's desk. "Right."
It didn't take long to find it. It was neatly slotted between his maths textbook and his copy of Macbeth. John hadn't seen him open it once, but he seemed to have memorized it line for line. Sherlock had an uncanny memory when it came to anything that concerned gruesome deaths.
It was surprisingly well-kept, though a little dog-eared. John took it back to the bed and sat down. The words "Assignment 2: Play" was typed in Arial across the top, above the words "Sherlock Holmes & John Watson".
"Hurst liked your detective work," he remarked.
Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. He was staring at the opposite wall, his brow furrowed.
"Hello?" John said, lifting a hand in front of his face. "Did you hear me?"
"Idiots are always impressed by the slightest display of innovation," Sherlock replied coolly, without hesitating.
"Well," John said, dropping the pile of stapled paper beside him. "If you're so innovative, you can work out a theme that involves a woman getting plugged by her son."
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud buzz from the pocket of John's trousers. Sherlock stared at it, frowning. "Something you'd like to share?"
John dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out Sherlock's phone. The screen had lit up. "Mycroft?" he said confusedly. "Why is Mycroft texting you?"
"I think a more pressing question is why you have my phone in your pocket," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. He came to the side of the bed, holding out a hand.
John dropped it onto his palm. "Marty found it in the common room."
Sherlock stared at him and then down at his phone. "The common room. That doesn't make any sense. I never step foot in the common room." He was frowning deeply.
"Well... what other explanation is there?" John said, watching him as his thumb moved rapidly over the number pad.
"He stole it," Sherlock said grimly, not looking up.
"It's locked with a code," John pointed out. "Marty isn't bright enough to break into a phone. Trust me."
Sherlock shrugged. He sunk down onto the bed next to him, his eyes still fixed on his phone. It was clear that he was running over every possibility in his head for just how Marty could get a hold of his property. "Bloody Mycroft..." he growled, locking it again and tossing it onto the bedside table.
"What did he say?" John said, staring at it.
"He's been harassing me ever since we got back to school," Sherlock said irritably, standing and walking across to his chair. He pulled his jumper over his head. His perpetually untucked shirt rode up a few inches underneath. "He's just trying to get a rise out of me."
John didn't reply. It was the first time Sherlock had mentioned Mycroft in front of him since the kiss. John hoped it was a sign that he was beginning to forget the incident.
"Are you sure he's just being annoying?" he said at length, careful in his choice of words.
Sherlock snorted. "What else?"
John shrugged, fiddling with the dishevelled blankets on Sherlock's bed. "Don't you think he might have better things to do than harass you?" He didn't look at Sherlock. He hoped he hadn't overstepped the mark.
Sherlock didn't reply for a long while. John could feel his eyes on him. "No," he said at length. "Trust me. Mycroft is indomitable when he's being a tosser." He paused with a sigh. "He's just trying to piss me off because of my bir-"
He cut off, looking sharply at John.
"What?" John said. "What were you about to say?"
Sherlock went faintly pink and cringed. "Nothing, John."
John frowned. He didn't know what was worse, that Sherlock thought he could fob him off with such a feeble excuse or that he didn't think John knew exactly what he was going to say.
He stood. Sherlock stared at him. "Where are you going?"
John shrugged and picked up the play. "I'm not going to stay here and listen to your crap."
He walked towards the door. The last thing he wanted to do was look at the abuse scrawled across Sherlock's door but he'd close his eyes if he had to. "John," Sherlock said, when his hand was on the handle. "Don't go."
John turned to him. "Why not?" he said calmly. "You lied to me. You hid things from me." The hand holding the play twitched. "And now you won't even tell me why you didn't tell me it was your birthday."
"It was four days ago, John," Sherlock said tiredly. "I just couldn't be bothered with the fuss."
"You mean you couldn't be bothered with me," John said angrily.
"No!" Sherlock snapped. "That is not it. You know I would never hide anything from you."
John held up the play, narrowing his eyes. "Try again, Sherlock."
Sherlock watched him silently and then looked away with a quiet sigh. "I don't know why I did it. I kept meaning to tell you but... but days kept going by and you never asked... so I never told you."
"Why?" John said sharply. "Why didn't you?"
"Because... I wanted you to myself," Sherlock said, looking straight into his eyes. "I didn't want you working on it over Christmas. I know it was selfish-"
"Yeah! It was bloody selfish!" John said, brandishing it at him. "I can't believe you did something like that. If I ever did something like tha-"
He cut off, flushing. He knew they were thinking of the same thing.
"It was completely different," he said quietly. "You did this on purpose."
"I know," Sherlock said, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. "I'm sorry," he added in a mumble.
John could feel his resolve buckling under the weight of Sherlock's serious expression, the depth of sincerity in his face. He wasn't lying. John knew it. "And your birthday? Why didn't you tell me about that?" he said in a hard voice, not wanting Sherlock to think he was softening.
"Personally, I don't think being one year closer to death is anything to celebrate," he said flatly.
John laughed, in spite of himself. "Yeah... Well, next time. Tell me," he said gruffly, clearing his throat hurriedly.
"So... Will you stay?" Sherlock said, his cheeks going pink again.
"No," John said. "Sorry. I have a lot of homework to do."
He enjoyed the look of affront on Sherlock's face but hastened to add:
"But meet me in the dark room after school tomorrow. Maybe I'll have a birthday present for you." He smirked.
Sherlock's eyes widened. "Give it to me now."
John's knees almost buckled at the neediness in Sherlock's voice but he shook his head. "Nope. You'll have to amuse yourself some other way." He glanced at the empty bed. "He's moving in here tomorrow, isn't he?"
"Yes," Sherlock said shortly. "He is."
"Ben's ok," John said, in a weak attempt at atoning for the fact that Sherlock's most prized possession-his solitude-was going to be taken from him within hours. "He'll be ok to room with."
Sherlock just shrugged. He seemed bitterly disappointed that John wasn't staying. John didn't mind that. He wasn't going to let him off the hook scot free.
"See you tomorrow then," he said, touching the doorhandle.
Sherlock almost pouted. "But I'm horny now," he complained.
"Too bad," John grinned.
He slipped out, closing the door behind him and carefully averting his eyes from the carved tattoo of obscenities.
...
By midday the next day Sherlock's ruined door had been removed and replaced with a shiny, clean new one. Much to the amusement of most of the students.
Not much was otherwise said about it. Harvey delivered a grave warning against vandalism at assembly and that was that.
Hurst cornered him after English class and said in a low, guilty voice that if he "wanted to talk" he could come to him. Sherlock felt a little sorry for him, he seemed even more dishevelled and ashen than usual so he refrained from expressing his true feelings concerning that offer of counsel and merely nodded.
He caught a glimpse of John as they filtered out into the corridor. He had no doubt overheard Hurst. John had been characteristically outraged by what had happened; he'd probably urge Sherlock to take Hurst up on his offer. He seemed unable to accept that Sherlock didn't care about what had happened.
He pushed his books into his bag and headed in the opposite direction to his classmates. He had spent the greater part of the morning's classes fantasizing about when he'd be alone with John and intended to spend lunch in a similar employment.
It took only a few feet for him to realise he was being followed. They weren't exactly attempting to muffle their footsteps, and there was more than one of them. Sherlock knew what was going to happen before it did.
A hand gripped the back of his school shirt. The collision with the corridor wall almost knocked the wind out of him. For a moment he couldn't do anything but gasp and stare at his attacker.
Marty didn't smirk at him. He looked extremely angry. Sherlock wondered what had happened for him to need a punching bag. He was with two footballers that Sherlock only vaguely recognised.
"You just don't take a hint, do you?" Marty shoved him to the ground, almost hanging Sherlock by his collar before he let go of it at the last second.
Sherlock landed painfully on his knees, staring up at him. "What do you want, Hester?"
Marty's foot came into contact with his stomach. It was the most painful thing Sherlock had ever experienced. For seconds he could do nothing but gasp helplessly for air. It felt like his lungs had forgotten how to take in oxygen. The pain reverberated through his entire form like an echo.
When he caught his breath, the two boys were grinning. Marty was not. He was watching him, his eyes little more than slits. "No one fucking wants you here."
He picked up Sherlock's bag and tipped it upside down. A small avalanche of school books, paper and stationary spilt across the floor. One of the boys kicked a couple of his books away. They landed against the opposite wall with a thud.
"Come on," Marty said in a low voice, jerking his head to his friends.
They walked across his spilt belongings and disappeared down the corridor. Sherlock stayed where he was on the ground. He didn't entirely trust that they wouldn't come back and beat the shit out of him.
But they didn't return and he began to gather his things back into a pile, sliding across the linoleum on his knees. He started stuffing it back into his bag in handfuls.
When he heard footsteps behind him, he knew it wasn't Marty and his cronies. There was something soft and measured in the steps that made him immediately aware of whom they belonged to.
He looked up. Jim surveyed him with sparkling amusement. He stopped in front of him, looking down at him with raised eyebrows. "Lost something?"
Sherlock yanked a textbook out from under Jim's vigorously shined shoe. "How do you always manage to turn up whenever there's something violent happening?"
Jim's lips jerked up into a puppet-like smile. "Call me a sadist. I just love to see you on your knees, Sherlock."
Sherlock stood, yanking his bag onto his shoulder. "You think you're going to drive me out of this school?"
"Out of this school and right into my arms," Jim said in a syrupy voice, the mechanical smile still fixed on his mouth. "Don't you like me, Sherlock? I thought you of all people could appreciate novelty when you see it. I think... secretly... somewhere inside that dull facade you rather get off on mayhem. Just as much as I do. I'm right, aren't I? Oh tell me I'm right, Sherlock." The same breathlessness was in his voice again.
Sherlock stepped back from him. The closeness was poisonous. "I'm nothing like you."
He turned on his heel and walked away towards the steps at the end of the hall. Jim gave a abrupt laugh from behind him.
"Oh! But we all know that's not tru-ue!"
The one thing Sherlock was thankful for was that Marty hadn't hit him in the face. He didn't completely know if he'd be able to stop John committing homicide if he had discovered that Marty had been victimizing him again.
He lifted up his jumper and his shirt in the mirror and traced down the curve of his ribs. There was no bruise. Though it still hurt intensely when he pressed on it. There was no reason John had to know about what happened. He'd panic and lose his temper and do something stupid and Sherlock didn't know if he could take any more unpleasant surprises after the door incident.
There was a low knock at the door. Sherlock dropped his shirt down again and went across to open it. Ben Greer peered up at him, holding a green toothbrush in one hand and a towel in the other. He was in his pyjamas. Sherlock stepped back from the door.
He didn't know what he was going to say to explain his absence later that evening. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. He doubted whether Ben would care.
Ben went wordlessly across to his bed. His bags were still in a pile next to it. He hadn't spent much time in their room since he had moved his things in earlier that afternoon. Sherlock hoped that that was a representation of how much time he would spend in there thereafter. He felt suffocated just looking at another person who wasn't John. The thought that they had made love in here, this very room and this graceless intruder was marring it with his presence, marring their private place was sickening.
Ben flopped onto his back on the bed and immediately attached himself to his phone. Sherlock sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on reading, but it was impossible. He could feel the boy's presence behind him, he knew when he was looking at him, he heard when he received a text and every creak of the bed when he moved. It was insufferable.
Finally, at some time past eight he left again without saying a word. Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling softly. He'd have to get used to it. He'd have to get used to the complete invasion of his privacy. He curled his fists tight on the desk.
He pushed the discomfort away and left early to meet John in the dark room. He had never wanted to see him so desperately. His ribs still ached from where Marty had kicked him. Ben had left his uniform spread across the floor. It felt like an unbearable affront to the space that should have been Sherlock's.
He reached the dark room without incident and without meeting anyone. He unlocked the door and slipped inside. It was utterly pitch black. He ventured carefully across to where the light switch was and turned it on. Sickly yellow light filled the room.
"Sherlock?" John's soft voice came from the doorway.
"In here," Sherlock replied.
John crept inside. He heard him close the door behind him. He was wearing jeans and a jacket. He smiled when he saw him.
"You managed to control yourself for 24 hours then," he teased, coming to a halt opposite him.
"Barely," Sherlock said, his fingers itching with the temptation to touch every inch of John's body.
"What's with the coat?" he remarked, eyeing the bulky obstacle.
John flushed a little and touched it. "Well, it was such short notice I couldn't get you a proper present so I thought I'd improvise. Happy Birthday."
He pulled the coat off and dropped it next to him. Sherlock felt his stomach constrict.
"John..." he croaked.
John's football toned torso was clad in the familiar white cotton shirt Sherlock had given him for Christmas. There was something intensely sexy about John professing his love for cock through a t-shirt. Sherlock didn't think he would ever entirely lose the liking for it.
There was half an inch of skin visible between the hem of the shirt and the tight band of his jeans. Sherlock leant forward and threaded his fingers through John's hair. John rested his hands on his hips, fingers teasingly close to the band of Sherlock's school trousers. When he released him, his hair was ruffled into perfection. He tried to smirk, but the corners of his mouth trembled. "This is very adequate," Sherlock said.
"Adequate?" John said, raising his eyebrows.
He pressed himself against him. Sherlock felt breathless for the second time in a day, but this time it was for a very different reason. John's body was seeping into every inch of his and it was intoxicating.
John tilted his mouth up towards his, rolling up onto the balls of his feet to close the inches between them. He touched his top lip with his tongue with a teasing smirk. "Just adequate?" he breathed, his hands gripped Sherlock's collar.
He kissed him. At first softly, gently teasing his lips with his and compliantly opening his mouth to be plundered by Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock tightened his hands on John's waist. He changed their positions, forcing him against the bench and wrenching a gasp from John's lips.
John's kiss became rougher. His grip on Sherlock's collar was firm and Sherlock couldn't have broken away if he had wanted to. John's tongue began to fight his for dominance and soon it wasn't John's mouth being slowly fucked but his.
"Ugh, John," he moaned, as John finally pulled away.
John's mouth was furiously red and extremely wet. Sherlock could feel his own mouth burning from John's assault. John smiled at him, eyes glinting. His eyes trailed down from Sherlock's face to their bodies pressed against each other. "Wow, you really are horny," he remarked.
"Shut up," Sherlock grumbled, very aware of how his cock was already straining against John's thigh.
John forced a hand between them and tightened it around the obvious bulge. Sherlock exhaled unsteadily, barely resisting the urge to roll against John's palm. "Cock-tease," he growled.
John grinned at him and released him. "You're just a needy like bitch, really? Aren't you?"
Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist. John made a sound of surprise as he was deposited against the nearest wall and his hands were pinned firmly above his head. He blinked up at Sherlock, flushing.
"You think you can keep me in this position?" he said breathlessly.
"Mmm, you like this position," Sherlock said, grinding his hips against John's and extracting a low groan from him. "Admit it."
John pushed a knee between his thighs and Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from omitting a humiliating sound. "Ah- Oh God," he panted, rocking his crotch against John's leg.
John took advantage of his distraction and wrenched his hands from Sherlock's grip. The next moment Sherlock was being backed against the bench against the opposite wall and hands were moving over his body with furious intent.
He was barely conscious of their progress but somehow John dispensed him of his jumper and his fingers worked feverishly at the buttons on his shirt, while his mouth roughly claimed Sherlock's. Sometimes his kiss was so fierce it felt like he was almost taking a bite out of Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock was vaguely aware of the pain of being pressed against the bench, which dug directly into his hips but his ability to care had long been disabled by John's hands. John ripped his shirt open and lowered himself in front of him, his mouth teasingly close to Sherlock's skin. Every hair seemed to be standing violently on end on his body. His nipples were dark and hard.
John looked up at him with a truly wanton expression, his mouth inches from Sherlock's nipple. If anything could have made him cream himself right there and then it was the look on John's face. He smiled and teasingly licked him. He moved lower, his hands in the curve of Sherlock's waist.
He lowered himself until his mouth was perfectly level with Sherlock's straining cock. He pressed his lips against it. Sherlock felt his salvia seep through the material. "Yes, John," he gasped, throwing his head back with his eyes closed. "Please."
"Such a good boy," John murmured against his erection. "Saying please so nicely for me."
Sherlock growled and dug his hand tight into John's hair, gripping it hard. John let out a quiet breath of surprise, but didn't pull away. He raised himself up again and slid his fingers into Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He could feel John's fingers agonizingly close to the dell between his hips. John's fingers moved clumsily over the buttons, his eyes never left Sherlock's. They were glowing fiercely and Sherlock could hardly bear blinking if it meant missing a moment of it.
He ran his hands up John's torso, loving the feel of the soft material beneath his fingers. John's nipples were taut beneath the thin garment.
He felt his trousers slip a few inches downwards and looked down. His underwear was protruding obscenely and there was a wet patch from his pre-cum and John's saliva. John palmed it with his hand.
Sherlock arched against the bench. "Ngh-Yes-"
His nostrils were stinging from John's deodorant and the sharp smell of the dark room. There was something heady about the scent, something that made him almost groggy with arousal.
"What do you want?" John said softly, his hands still gently fondling him through his underwear.
Sherlock wished he could control his breathing. He was panting, his body was heaving and it was obvious in what state he was in. John could have asked anything of him at that moment and Sherlock would have gladly given it. But at this moment, he truly knew what he wanted.
"I want you to fuck me," he said in a low voice.
John bit his lip with a soft moan. "You want it."
"I want you inside of me," Sherlock breathed, his lips colliding with John's forehead, sticky and wet.
"Turn," John hissed.
Sherlock did as he was told, leaving a thread of salvia between his lips and John's skin. He gripped the bench hard, trying to steady himself. John's breath was hot against his ear. "We don't have anything."
"I don't care," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his nails gripping the surface of the desk painfully hard. "Use spit. Use blood. I don't care. Just do it now."
John guided his trousers lower down his thighs until they fell loose around his knees. His hands touched his underwear and gently pulled it down. The air caressed Sherlock's aching cock like a teasing hand. He bent further over the bench, spreading his legs and gasping for air.
John's fingers crept along the curve of his arse, tentative and exploratory. They were damp and warm. Sherlock curved his back as John's fingers slipped between his buttocks and touched his long neglected entrance.
"Now," he gasped. "Please. Need you."
John hesitated for a moment and then slipped a finger inside of him. Sherlock writhed against the bench. It had been so long since he'd had something inside of him. John added another, stretching him like he had been stretched numerous times.
"Are you ok?" he said in a breathy voice, as Sherlock began to whimper.
"Yes," Sherlock managed to choke out. "Want... need..."
John extracted his fingers gently. "What do you need?" he said softly. "Tell me what you need."
"Need... need your cock inside... inside me," Sherlock said in shuddery spurts.
John sucked in a breath with a moan. His hands became painfully tight on Sherlock's waist and Sherlock felt the crown of his cock touch his entrance. A moment later he eased himself in slowly- torturously slowly.
Sherlock clawed at the bench, feeling like he would suffocate from the sensation. "Ugh... Oh God-God..."
"Sherlock," John choked. "Sherlock... it... I..."
He sounded overwhelmed by the sensation. Sherlock cried out as John pushed himself all of the way in.
"Ngh- It's s-so t-tight..." he whimpered.
"Fuck me," Sherlock gasped. "Fuck me, John."
John obeyed. His movements were rough and unsteady. He was hardly able to control himself. Sherlock knew he was struggling with the new sensations. He knew that it would be a while before John would be able to control himself when he was buried up to the hilt in that endless, hot tightness.
In the secluded privacy of the dark room, their moans and grunts were swallowed by the silence. Sherlock had never felt anything so suffocatingly pleasurable in his entire existence. He had missed this feeling. This feeling of being full to the brim and overflowing with the desperate need for more.
John's body came against his fiercely and quickly. Without meaning to, John was fucking him furiously hard and Sherlock's hole burnt at the sensation. It was blinding. He was intoxicated by the sensation.
And John's sounds. His little moans, his little gasps, his breathless groans were beautiful. He was perfect in his bliss.
"John... John..." Sherlock panted. "I'm... Oh- So close, John."
John was too. He could feel it. The desperation and need in his movements. His body fiercely needed to spend itself. John's hand closed tightly around Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock threw his head back with an almost animalistic cry as the oblivion of orgasm overtook him. He cried out John's name again and again, forcing himself back against him and wanting more and more of John inside of him.
John toppled over the edge after him. With sounds that were muffled by the intense cacophony in his own head, John drove himself once more inside of him. Sherlock felt John's seed rush warmly into him. John rode out his orgasm inside of him with raw gasps for air.
Sherlock's could feel wood under his nails from where he had been scraping the surface of the bench. His breathing was unquenchable, no amount of air seemed to sate his lungs. John's arms were wrapped around his torso. He was thankful that John had short nails or he would probably have sustained permanent scars.
At length, John gave a businesslike cough and stepped back, pulling out of him. Sherlock turned and leant his back against the bench. John was a deep shade of magenta. His jeans were unzipped and hanging around his thighs. His cock was still hanging out of his underwear.
John seemed to see where his gaze was directed and hastily tucked himself back in. Sherlock felt vaguely for his own clothes pooled around his legs and tugged them up.
John smiled sheepishly at him and picked up his fallen coat. "Well... ah... Happy Birthday."
Sherlock shook his head, still fumbling blindly with the buttons on his school shirt. "I knew that whole virgin schoolboy act was phony. You're a little dominatrix."
"Shut up," John said, though he grinned good-naturedly.
John donned his coat again and Sherlock tried to make it less obvious that he had just been bent over and fucked by his boyfriend, but that late at night it was difficult to care.
Just before they ventured out of the dark room, John put his arms around his neck and planted a very gentle kiss on his lips. Sherlock savoured every last second of having John in his arms. His smell, his feel, his warmth, his heartbeat, his breathing.
"One day we'll be able to fuck just like any other couple and not have to worry about getting killed," John said in a low voice.
"Until then," Sherlock said, pulling away.
With one last fleeting smile, John left the dark room. Sherlock counted to thirty while he went across to turn off the lights and make sure that they hadn't left behind any evidence of their activities. Then he left also and locked the door behind him.
He arrived back in the dorms just in time to see John disappearing into his own room.
A short distance away Marty was standing with his back to him, stooped towards someone and talking feverishly. As Sherlock neared him he saw Jim leaning idly against the wall next to him, his arms folded and his expression blank.
His eyes rested on Sherlock as he passed. Sherlock stared back at him, conscious of his dishevelled appearance and the smell of sweat and sex on all of his clothes.
Marty was still speaking rapidly. Sherlock couldn't hear what he was saying. He could only wonder at what Marty had to say to someone like Jim Moriarty. Especially when Jim put a hand to Marty's chest and gave him a sharp shove away. Marty stumbled back. If it had been anyone else he would have had them on the floor within a heartbeat but he just blinked at Jim in surprise and, though Sherlock hardly dared to believe it, apparent hurt.
Sherlock turned his back on them and went up to his room. The shiny, new door stuck out like a sore thumb among the others. Sherlock let himself in and closed the door on the outside world, eager to recount every heated detail of that evening and purge Marty and especially Jim from his mind's eye.
End of Chapter Twenty-Two