Still I'm dying with every step I take
But I don't look back
Chapter Twenty-Four:
"Are you ok, mate?"
John started where he was. He looked around at Ben. He was watching him with one eyebrow raised. There was a muddy football perched against his hip.
"I'm fine," John mumbled, rubbing his neck against the cold.
He glanced around the forlorn spread of his team. Marty was sitting on the dewy bench, his head rested in his hands and his back hunched. Billy was still out of action and hadn't come to the game at all.
"It's not over," Ben said, from close next to him. "We can still come back."
John just nodded. He knew it was doubtful at best. They were three goals down and the way his team was playing was uninspiring at best. They weren't used to having to actually try for victory and it hadn't taken long for them to spiral down into a dejected sulk when it became clear that the opposing team wasn't going to just lay down and hand it to them.
"I don't know how this happened," he said quietly, turning away from them.
"There were always cracks in the team," Ben said in a low voice, almost directly into his ear. He clearly was not keen for the team to overhear his treachery. "Too confident, not disciplined enough. Relied too heavily on Billy's ability to barrel anyone out of his way. And Marty..." He glanced over his shoulder to the bowed bronze head. "Well, he's thrown his lot in with Moriarty."
John touched his neck again. He could feel goosebumps rising on his arms underneath his football uniform. "What are we going to do?" he said heavily, resting his forehead against his palm.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ben look sideways at him. "You know what people are saying, don't you?"
He said it gently. There was almost a trace of pity in his tone and John looked sharply at him. "What?"
Ben swallowed slowly and glanced over his shoulder again with an uncomfortable shrug. "You know what they're like. They want to win, John. You don't know what they'd be capable of if they were desperate enough."
John watched him in silence. No, he did know. He knew very well what they would do. Loyalty, friendship; it meant nothing to them. They only wanted to protect their image, their pride. John meant nothing to them.
"Well, I'm still the captain," he said in a hard voice. "We'll play by my rules until that changes."
Ben sent him a dubious look and said nothing.
John turned back to his team. He ran an eye along the mud splattered, damp figures in their miserable black and red. Marty still hadn't moved, his face was obscured by his hands.
"Guys," John said, irritably conscious of the hesitation to his voice. His usual easiness when speaking with his team seemed difficult for him to grasp for the first time in his life. "Guys!" Almost no one looked up, and those who did spared him only sparing glances. It was almost as though they had made a silent pact to mutually ignore him. "Would you sit up straight and stop sulking?" he snapped, losing his patience more rapidly than he was used to.
It didn't have an overwhelming response. A few of them stirred from their limp positions on the damp grass and bench, but many did not. To his surprise Marty looked at him, his face was flushed and his eyes were narrowed. John looked at him and then back at the rest of the team.
"I know this isn't how we wanted things to go," he said, propping his hands on his hips. He could see Ben staring at him, but he didn't look at him. "But we can still equalize or even win if we just keep concentrating. We can't break down now."
There were mumbles. Very few of them seemed to even be listening to him. He felt a pang of annoyance.
"If we had Pip, this wouldn't be happening," one of them mumbled.
Marty looked very sharply at who had spoken, but said nothing. John rubbed his forehead with a silent sigh.
Halftime ended much too quickly and soon he was walking back onto the damp field, and starting to shiver inside his uniform. The parents were watching on, pale faced and scowling. John glanced at them, but he couldn't see any Redverse students among them. They seemed to have abandoned their team to their humiliation.
John didn't think his hollow speech had done much to bolster his team's confidence and when they began playing his suspicion was proved correct. There was a heavy listlessness in all of them that seemed almost beyond the normal bounds of dejection.
Even Ben, usually flawless in his goalkeeping, missed a goal, bringing the score to 4-0. The only player who seemed to possess any of his usual spirit was Marty. Curiously, he seemed more alive on the field than when he was off it. He took control of the ball early and seemed possessed by an intense, almost bitter determination as he made his way roughly for the goal.
John watched as he shot it powerfully into the net and his team, for the first time that evening, seemed to be jolted back to life. They swarmed around Marty's tall, well-built figure, slapping him eagerly on the back. He did very little in response to their congratulations. He stared around with an almost fierce defiance, his eyes settling on John, his nostrils flaring.
John nodded at him across the field, but Marty made no sign that he had seen him. He was still in the midst of his teammates. John watched him turn his back on him. Marty's usual parade of self-congratulatory gloating was conspicuously absent.
The other boys dispersed, and it seemed that Marty's goal had injected some spirit into his wilting team. Despite this, John felt uneasy. There was something very different in Marty's manner and he could shake the feeling that Ben's allusions to him were based on more than just resentment towards his relationship with Moriarty.
He cringed into the cold darkness. "Relationship". It sounded like the absolute wrong word to apply to whatever was going on between Marty and Jim. He wiped away the sweat from his top lip with the sleeve of his shirt and stared across to where Marty was making another reckless dash for the goal, the same stony expression on his face.
What he had seen the night of the party had been burning in his mind day after day. It was quickly consuming every other thought, every other concern. Sherlock seemed to think that doing nothing was more than appropriate, but John itched with uneasy curiosity.
But, they had their own problems now. John sighed, watching his breath thicken the air with smoke.
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts he didn't see the opposing team's striker until he was almost level with him.
"John!" someone hollered. He didn't see who.
The ball sailed past him and bounced off the goalpost nearest to him. It hurtled towards him and hit him squarely in the chest. He let out a surprised grunt as he was thrown backwards and off his feet.
He felt his arse land in the soggy grass and the water seeped rapidly through the material and through his underwear. He hastily scrambled to his feet, his cheeks burning at the muffled laughter. He didn't look at the perpetrators. He was almost afraid to see whose team they were on.
He looked sideways to where Marty was, but he wasn't looking at him. John shrugged off the referee and prepared to take the throw-in. He felt a hand on his wrist. He looked up and stared into the face of one of his players. A red-haired, freckled boy called Samuel.
"I'll take it," he said, and it wasn't a suggestion.
John limply allowed him to take the ball from him. He felt like he was in a fog as he watched him throw it in. He knew it was the worst possible moment, but he could feel the panic beginning to sink into him and he thought he might freeze where he was standing.
The rest of the game passed in a heavy blur. He knew they were losing. Marty's goal hadn't been enough to drive them through to victory, but it had taken the sting off a complete humiliation. At the end of the game, he turned and walked back towards the bench, not waiting for the usual formalities of shaking the opposing team's hands and rounding up his team.
He felt almost nauseous with uneasiness. He gulped down water from his plastic water bottle, squirting some into his hands and spraying his face and neck liberally. He felt it seep into his collar. He could feel the seat of his pants were soaking wet and probably covered in mud.
He wiped away the water and cold sweat from his brow with a heavy sigh.
"That could have gone better."
John turned as Ben appeared next to him. He shrugged offhandedly, not wanting to be reminded of his failure. His humiliation. His inability to lead his own team.
Somehow he had always been able muster the false enthusiasm, the drive and motivation needed to excel at football. He didn't know where he found the ability to do it, but he had. But now, he couldn't. He just couldn't. It wasn't a matter of not wanting to, it was a physical incapability to carry on the farce any longer.
"We're a laughing stock," John mumbled. He pulled his kit bag onto his shoulder and turned towards where the parents were gathered along the sideline.
His team were moving sluggishly towards the benches, heads down and exchanging disbelieving shakes of their heads. The group of parents, once so overwhelming in its size and overconfident dedication to their sons and team, seemed to be shrinking week by week. No one seemed to want to support a losing team. A team of losers. It was easy when they had been winners, but now it was difficult and embarrassing and they'd rather just stay away.
"John." He felt Ben's hand on his arm. He stopped, letting the dark-haired boy pull him around to face him. He was in no mood to resist. Ben looked hurriedly over his shoulder and then back at him. "I'm telling you this because you're my friend, the others... they..."
He cut off abruptly, his eyes resting on something over John's shoulder. John sensed the person before their heavy hand rested on his shoulder. He jerked, but didn't turn.
"Mr. Watson," Ben said, taking a hasty step back.
"Evening, Ben," John's father's curt voice said, close to John's ear. "Shame about the game."
"Oh, yeah," Ben said, shuffling uncomfortably and glancing quickly at John. "I better... my parents..." He gestured vaguely towards the crowd.
John nodded. Ben grimaced apologetically at him and turned and scurried away towards the crowd. John exhaled softly and pulled himself out of his father's grip. He turned to face him. His father was dressed in a pinstripe suit that made him look very square of figure and had his sandy hair combed to one side.
"John, we should talk."
John shrugged. "What about?"
The hand returned to his shoulder and tightened. "This is no time for jokes." He began to steer him away from the field and floodlights towards the stairs to the changing rooms. John didn't struggle; he had no will to struggle. He was tired of struggling.
"What the hell are you playing at?"
As soon as they were out of earshot of the other parents, his father's voice fell to a hoarse growl. The hand was still clamped onto John's shoulder, painfully tight.
"I'm told it's called football," John replied dully.
His father jerked his head towards him with a snarl. "You have to start taking this fucking seriously. What the hell is going on in that goddamned team? What the fuck do you think you're doing? You think that this is just a game? Just a joke? Your place in this school relies on this, John. Your place in this world relies on this. You want to be a loser? A nobody? Keep going the way you're going and it will fucking well happen."
He lapsed into silence. John listened silently to his tirade. They were at the stairs now and it was dark. He almost tripped on the first step, but he felt his father yank him up by his shirt, effectively dragging him up.
"What do you want me to say?" John said quietly, as they reached the courtyard where the changing rooms were. "I've done everything I can do."
His father shook his head, his hands dropping down from his shoulder. John inwardly swore at himself for pathetically regretting the loss of his father's hand on him, even when it was twisted painfully into his shirt.
"You clearly haven't or these problems wouldn't be happening," his father said. He yanked a cigarette from his coat pocket, where John could see his packet was crammed inside. He lit it, his fingers trembling gently in the darkness. "You don't seem to realise what's at stake."
"What is?" John said impatiently. "People keep alluding to things, hinting to things but they never tell me exactly what the hell is going on. What's going to happen?"
His father took a drag and turned his head to exhale into the cold air beside him. "You'll be overturned as captain."
He said it so shortly, that John thought he had misheard. He stared at him. A cold trickle seemed to run through his veins from his temples to his ankles. He couldn't think. He couldn't move.
"What?" his mouth mechanically formed.
His father's reply was swallowed by a series of harsh coughs. He cleared his throat, wiping his mouth up the arm of his coat. "You heard me," he said hoarsely, flicking his barely touched cigarette to the ground and pressing the toe of his shoe into it. "It might be too late."
John stared at him. The words seemed to have a different meaning, seemed not to be penetrating his mind. The thought that the team who, three months ago, couldn't piss without asking his say-so were planning mutiny behind his back was almost as laughable as it was desperately hurtful.
He shook his head and moved to turn his back on his father. "No. That's bullshit. They would never-"
His father's hands gripped the back of his shirt and he found himself yanked backwards and then thrust against the nearby wall of the changing rooms. The wall was wet and extremely cold. One of his father's hands was pinned into his chest; the other was balled up in his shirt. He stared at his father's mostly dark obscured face, panting.
"What the hell are you doing?"
His father gave a low snarl and pushed him harder against the wall. John narrowly managed to avoid hitting the back of his head against the bricks. "You think this is bullshit? You think what I'm telling you is bullshit?" he spat venomously.
"Dad," John gasped, as the hand around his shirt tightened it almost into a noose around his throat. "You're... h-hurting me-"
"You want to throw it all away? Your future? Your potential?" John gripped his father's hand, trying fruitlessly to untangle it from its tightening position on his shirt. "You screw this up for m- for us you might as well not come home. Do you hear me?"
John didn't speak. His ears were ringing. His throat was burning. He thought he might pass out.
His father gave him a sharp shake. "Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," John managed to say, with a gasp.
His father watched him silently for a moment, his eyes shielded by darkness. John stared back at him, too stunned to feel anything. It was like he had been punched in the jaw and was too in shock to feel the pain.
His father's hands finally loosened and released him. He could feel his skin was bruised from where his father's hand had been pressed into his chest. His father straightened his coat with a gruff cough.
John didn't move, though he could feel the cold, wet wall beginning to seep through his kit. It felt like they stood there for hours in the dark and silence, listening to the distant sounds from the football pitch. John didn't look at his father; he watched the moths swarming around the nearby light post.
At length he heard voices and footsteps on the stairs and knew his team was coming up to use the changing rooms. He hastily straightened up, dusting down his filthy uniform.
His father slowly turned to where John was staring. The heads of his team appeared. Ben was at the front, Marty was nowhere to be seen. John walked forward to meet them, not looking at his father as he passed him.
"Hey," he said quietly to Ben, conscious of the eyes on him and the coldness in their faces as they looked at him. Or maybe he was imagining it.
"Hi," Ben said, with a small, pitying smile.
By the time John turned back to his father, he was already retreating into the darkness. John didn't go after him. He went into the changing rooms with his team. He threw his kit bag onto the grimy bench and peeled his dripping shirt off of him. He hadn't felt so dirty, so damp in a long time.
He glanced at himself in the mirror nailed to the wall above the sinks. Mud was smeared across his arse and legs. It would have been funny if the atmosphere in the changing rooms hadn't been akin to a public execution.
They were all almost fully dressed by the time Marty appeared. He was fiercely flushed and had leaves in his hair and clinging to the back of his uniform, as though he had been on his back in dry undergrowth. John tried not to stare, tried not to think how those scratches on Marty's neck had got there.
Marty stood close to John at the head of the long bench. He let his bag slip from his shoulder with a loud thump. Everyone looked up.
John glanced at them and saw them plainly for the first time. He saw the way they stared at Marty, that mixture of awe and admiration in their eyes. Even Ben, who so staunchly insisted he thought Marty was an idiot, now looked at him with something different. Something uncertain. Marty now commanded something more than mere idiotic charisma. He had power. And John was certain he knew who had given him the ability to take that power.
"So?" he said. He spoke so seldom now that every word he said had a drive behind it that no one could deny or ignore. "Are we going to speak about the mess tonight or just pretend like nothing happened?"
John watched him and realised abruptly that he too was hovering at the sidelines like another of Marty's cronies. For the first time in his life he felt his natural position threatened. He took a step forward. Marty looked at him, but with such withering dismissal that irritation stirred in John's stomach.
"Marty? Do you have something to say?" he snapped.
Marty's eyes settled coldly on him again, the same mocking disregard lurking in his gaze. "Maybe I do. Maybe I'm sick of being humiliated day in and day out. This team used to be the best on the table." His voice gave a betraying tremble.
John glanced around his team, some were staring fixedly at Marty, others' eyes were darting between them as though unable to decide who was most captivating to watch. "There were always cracks in the team, but it's nothing we can't fix. Billy will be back within the next week-"
"We need much more than that overgrown fuckwit," Marty retorted.
"Then what?" John burst out in frustration. "New players? More practices? What?"
Marty looked at him coldly and didn't reply. John looked back at him, determined not to falter under his gaze, but feeling like he was staring into the sun.
"He's right," one of the others finally piped up. "We're sick to fucking death of losing. This can't go on until the end of the season."
There were mumbles of agreement from the rest. Marty's eyes flashed in triumph.
"But who's fault is it?" another of them snapped. "Fucking Billy's for being such a pussy and not playing!"
"No way," another retorted. "It's the defenders. Fucking useless."
"Shut your face. You don't know shit."
"You can't play for shit. You might as well just lie down and let them fuck you the way you're playing."
"That's bullshit!"
John massaged his forehead with his fingers, not turning to watch the predictable scuffle break out. There were yells from the other team member's as they hurried to wrench them apart. Marty watched on calmly, his arms folded. He gave off the aura of a doctor surveying the ravages of a disease only he had the cure to.
"And how do you suggest we fix this?" John asked him quietly, as the ruckus behind him died down again.
"Yeah, how precisely do we fix it?" Ben said angrily, his old resentment of Marty resurfacing through his reluctant admiration.
Marty laughed shortly. "We cut out the weak link."
He added nothing to that statement. For a long time nobody spoke. Marty picked up his bag and went into the nearest shower. The sound of the water filled the brick chamber.
John knew they were all thinking the same thing. He could almost feel the pulse of the others' thoughts directed towards him.
He picked up his kitbag and walked out into the quiet cold of the night. He knew they would talk about him when he left, but he preferred that to standing there and knowing that he was the cause of the silence. The tension.
He was halfway to the school doors when he noticed someone lurking just beyond the light streaming out of the glass. He knew instinctively who it was; he recognised the figure, the movements.
When he neared them, he stopped on the stairs, clutching his kitbag strap tighter in his hand. "What are you doing?"
Jim stepped out of the gloom, a smirk flashing across his face like a car's headlight passing in the dark. "Waiting for my friend," he said, derision dripping from every word. "That's allowed isn't it, captain?"
He was looking him up and down again, the same way he had on the first day they had met. But then there had been dismissal and disinterest in his look, now there was something else. Something cold and delighted, like an animal surveying its much weaker, hapless prey.
John shivered and took a step up the stairs so he at least had a slight advantage of height over him. "Whatever you're planning-"
Jim laughed melodically over him. "Planning? Ooh, you make it sound so naughty. So dark. Do you like bad boys, John? Is that it? Do they turn you on?"
He stepped towards him, biting his lip mockingly. "You can tell me, Johnny. I won't tell anyone. Do they make you..." He rolled the word around in his mouth like he was tasting it. "Hard?"
John could feel every hair on his body pricking up in disgust and alarm. "Stop your fucking mindfuck games-"
Jim made a sound like a growl and a moan. "Oh. But being mindfucked by me feels good, doesn't it? You want me to mindfuck you all night long until you can't stand it."
John gritted his teeth, he jerked towards him. He was so close to gripping the sneering viper's clothes and throwing him as hard as he could to the ground, but he stopped himself. It would give Jim too much satisfaction to see how furious his depraved, mocking "flirting" made him.
"Stay away from us. Or I will make you regret it," he said in a low voice, fixing his eyes on Jim's dark, dancing gaze.
Jim grinned. "Oh, there we go. That sweet, little fighting spirit. I would be disappointed if you didn't at least put up something like a fight," he said, offhandedly examining his nails. "I'll enjoy breaking you, John. It'll be fun." He looked at him, with a playful kiss into the air. "It'll feel good."
John turned away and headed into the school, goosebumps covering every inch of his uncovered skin.
...
Sherlock stared at the screen of his mobile phone. The default grey screen was blank. It had been blank for the past week. And it was odd.
It was difficult to ignore the fact that since receiving his phone back from John there had not been a single, solitary call or message from his brother. It was even more difficult not to wonder why they had stopped. His brother wasn't one to back down when he had decided he was going to do something. Sherlock could imagine that he had employed someone to make the calls on his behalf. Mycroft was far too busy to employ himself dedicatedly to the pursuit of harassing his brother.
But that didn't explain the sudden and abrupt silence. He couldn't possibly have achieved what he set out to achieve. Unless irritating his brother had been his one and only goal. Sherlock found that hard to believe. Mycroft may have been many things, but he wasn't petty.
He slipped it back into his pocket. He had other problems now. Mycroft wasn't at the top of the list of his concerns. As interesting as the sudden silence was, he knew he couldn't dwell on it.
He had taken to arriving at classes earlier than usual. He stood among his peers by the bag racks and listened. He listened to their idiotic chatter and waited for some sign that they knew of him and John. But if anything, people seemed to speak less to him- or at him. He waited for the insults, the sneers, the attacks but they never came. He had his ear permanently to the ground, but the expected Armageddon had thus far not occurred.
He spied John arriving at the rear of the crowd. He was with Sherlock's roommate Ben. Sherlock had nothing to report about the dark-haired and slightly sickly complexioned boy. He was quiet, was rarely in the room unless he was sleeping and hadn't spoken a single word to Sherlock since he'd arrived. It was the next best thing to being alone, and apart from being visited by terrors that one day his nighttime fantasies concerning John might inexplicably return to him, within full earshot and eyeshot of Ben, Sherlock had little to concern himself with him.
John looked like he hadn't slept all night. His skin had an ashy tinge to it and shadows were clinging beneath his eyes. Sherlock had heard about the disastrous game. It was the third on a seemingly unending losing streak. Sherlock tried not to enjoy the indignant humiliation of those who had so long exerted to make his life a misery, but it was remarkable to watch the foundations of the school buckle when their seemingly infallible idols were proven to be, in actuality, human and capable of failure.
If anything, Sherlock felt himself increasingly isolated from his peers. They seemed to shrink away from him. Not obviously, but out of the corner of his eye he saw it: their increasing wariness of him. He saw it with unease. It was not comforting to him that this change had come on so suddenly.
He spied Jim near the rear. Close to where John was standing. He was next to Marty. As usual. They never strayed far from each other. Or, rather, Marty never strayed far from him. Sherlock could see his dedication as clear as day. Whatever their relationship entailed, it was clear that Marty's attraction to Jim ran deep. Jim treated Marty with indifference. He rebuffed him with cold, unfeeling gestures and jerks of his head. And yet Marty crawled evermore to him. Sherlock didn't wonder what power Jim had over him. He had had too much experience with Jim in past weeks to see just what he wielded over those who came into contact with him.
The home classroom door opened at almost precisely 8:30. But it wasn't Hurst's lanky figure that greeted them, but a brisk and rather square-shouldered woman with grey hair and a long brown skirt under a plaid jacket. She stepped back from the door, looking at them with her head slightly raised, almost with a vague distaste. There was a shock of vibrant red lipstick across her lips, contrasting with an otherwise colourless, washed-out face.
Sherlock watched her as he took his seat in the front row. There were already murmurs from around him. Hurst had never missed a class in all of their time at Redverse. This was not just out of character, it was freakish. Unless Hurst was dying of typhoid he was not averse to coming to class sick and unless his entire family had been wiped out in a house fire it took a lot to keep him away.
"Good morning, boys," the woman said briskly, standing in front of the desk with Hurst's roll folder clasped in wrinkled hands. "I trust you have realised that I am not your usual teacher Mr. Hurst. I am Ms. Stone and I will be taking his classes from now on. Any concerns about your assignments or work you intended to clear up with him can now be directed towards me. Any questions?"
Her sharp eyes scanned the room like a laser, absorbing them all in one swift movement. Sherlock raised his hand. Her eyes settled on him.
"Yes... Mr...?" she said slowly, as though she hadn't expected anyone to actually speak.
"Holmes," Sherlock replied. "Why precisely will you be taking his classes? Is he indisposed?"
Ms. Stone made a face like she was sucking hard on a lemon. "I'm not sure that is any of your business, Mr. Hose-"
"Holmes."
Ms. Stone blinked. "Sorry, dear?"
"Forget it," Holmes snapped.
When they were dismissed, Sherlock waited by the bag racks, watching for John. He came out at the rear as always, and Sherlock caught his eye. He didn't dare to for more than the briefest moment, but it was enough to let John know he needed to talk to him.
He turned on his heel and walked away from the home room, knowing that John would somehow disentangle himself from his friends and come after him. Though these days John seemed to have little trouble finding time away from his friends. They no longer seemed to swathe him like an ever-present swarm. Again, Sherlock did not find this sudden peace comforting.
"What is it?" John appeared beside him as he turned into an empty corridor around the corner.
Sherlock didn't turn to him. It was difficult being close to John when he as so tired and so worried. He didn't trust himself not to engulf him in his arms in some clumsy attempt at comfort.
"There's something strange going on here," he said instead, keeping his eyes forward as they walked down the deserted corridor beside each other. "I think something's happened to Hurst."
"Like what?" John said blankly.
"I... I don't know." Sherlock was wary about divulging what he had overheard between Hurst and Jim, though he was certain it was the biggest clue as to why Hurst's departure may not have been willing. "I just have a feeling. It's just too sudden, too unexplained."
"Well, maybe his mum got cancer or he got offered a job out of town or something," John said with an unconvinced shrug. "It's probably nothing sinister."
Sherlock nodded and said nothing more on the subject. They had reached the end of the corridor and the frosted glass doors that led on to another. He stopped and turned to John. He looked at the shadows and lines around his eyes, the pallid tinge to his complexion, the hollowness of his cheeks. He looked, in a word, dreadful and Sherlock knew that the anxiety of the past weeks was eating him alive like an intestinal worm.
"How are you anyway?" he said.
John shrugged. "Fine."
Sherlock stared hard at him. "I heard about the game." He hesitated. "And about what happened afterwards."
John, who had been gazing absently at the wall behind him, looked very sharply at him, panic visibly jolting through his eyes. "W-what? How did-"
"People talk," Sherlock said simply. "Do you think they will go through with it?"
John stared at him blankly and it was clear that he had been thinking of something else. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Oh... I... I don't know," John said, colouring. He looked away, his cheeks flushing redder.
"Is there anything else?" Sherlock said wryly. "Anything else you'd like to share?"
John shook his head. "Just tired. Just sick of football and Jim and everyone. Sometimes..." He trailed off with a shrug.
"Just leave Jim to me," Sherlock said. He stared stonily up the corridor behind him. "Stay away from him."
"Trust me, I have no desire to be within ten feet of that creep," John said bitterly.
They walked back towards the home classroom together, and then went their separate ways. Sherlock could afford to do little more than squeeze John's hand in a weak gesture of comfort. John didn't respond, but tried fruitlessly to smile as before he left him.
Sherlock had no desire to spend his free periods in the company of others so he had taken to wandering the school in a desperate bid to have a few moments to think. To think about Hurst, about Jim, about the mess they were in. The mess he was in.
After all, Jim hadn't wanted John. He had wanted him. Just him.
Sherlock stopped where he was, growling into his hands. Of all the selfish, stupid things he had done, dragging John into his mess had been the worst. Sometimes he thought- He thought...
He couldn't even bring himself to say it. And he felt even the worse for it.
It had been weeks since Jim had discovered them, but he had done nothing. Well, there had been no explosions, no airstrikes, no violent deaths. Or fire ants. But the silence was killing him. Jim's usual game of cornering him and playing with him, teasing and flirting and threatening him had come to an abrupt end. He now barely looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock knew it was all a part of his mindfuckery. He wanted to torment John, infuriate Sherlock and make it quite clear just how much control he had- over himself and the rest of the school.
He checked his phone again. It had become almost a compulsion. He kept expecting to see a message or missed call from Mycroft, but the blank screen stayed blank and the silence continued.
Silence from all sides.
...
Ben dragged John to the common room that night. John hadn't stepped foot in it for weeks and he knew it couldn't be helping to quell the rumours that his captainship was severely under threat. The last thing John wanted to do was subject himself to the scrutiny of his teammates and peers, but it seemed he had no choice.
There was something withdrawn and too quiet about their behaviour towards him and he didn't like it. Every night expected to be dragged from his bed and beaten. Every day he expected to be exposed for what he really was. He knew that silence would be the last thing he could expect from his team if Jim ever did decide to expose Sherlock and him, but that was far from comforting. No, the silence meant something else. It meant that even without his sexuality being exposed, his team were beginning to drift from him. He was losing his grip on who he thought he was.
"I don't want to do this."
Ben sent him a withering look, one hand already on the common room door. "Look, mate. I don't want to scare you, but you are pretty fucking close to losing it all. If you don't make an effort, the quicker it'll go."
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm sure they're all just waiting for the right time to pull the dagger out," he said, trying to shrug off Ben's words when he knew they were only too true.
"Look, just try and talk them around," Ben said patiently. "It's not too late. Just try."
John sighed heavily. "Fine. If you think it'll help."
Ben pushed open the door and John reluctantly followed him inside. If John had ever wondered what it would be like to walk into a room and be greeted with silence, this would probably be the closest he would ever get.
He watched in growing frustration at the glances that were exchanged, the silent remarks that were made through mere looks in his direction. He felt their dislike, and it hurt.
"How's it going?" Ben said, leading him to a table where Marty, Billy and two others were seated, playing cards.
John was relieved to see that Jim was absent. He didn't know if he could have taken Jim's knowing looks, his teasing remarks. It would have driven him to do something desperate.
Marty and the two others looked up at them wordlessly. Billy greeted them with a grunt. He still bore the marks of his experience with the ants, but seemed to have been forgiven somehow by Marty. Though he was increasingly subjected to biting remarks about his weight and intelligence, and he no longer dared to retort.
Ben sat down and made an unsubtle gesture for John to do the same. The four continued playing Bullshit as though Ben and John hadn't arrived. John narrowed his eyes at Marty across from him.
"Are we going to talk about what happened on the weekend?" he said irritably, before he could stop himself.
Marty didn't look up or reply. "Three fives," he said calmly, placing his cards down.
"Two fours," Billy grunted, flicking down his cards after him.
Ben glanced at John with something akin to despair in his eyes. John sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand. "Look. I think we need to discuss this. You can't just exact a coup on my own team."
Marty released an exaggerated sigh, lowering his cards and finally raising his eyes to fix on John's. "Don't think of it as a coup, golden boy. We live in a democracy after all. It'll be an election. Fair and square."
John stared at him. "You want them to vote you in as captain?"
"I don't want it, the team needs it," Marty replied curtly. "You've clearly lost your touch, John and I think the sooner the team is in capable hands, the better. The team agrees with me."
John glared around the rest of the table. "Do you? You think I'm an incompetent captain? Why don't you speak up and say it to my fucking face instead of carrying on like a group of bitching old women?"
No one spoke and John realised the whole room had gone quiet. Marty watched him with cool, hard derision, so unruffled that he could have rivalled even Sherlock Holmes.
"This is business, John," he said shortly. "Don't take it so personally." He tilted his cards back up towards his chest. "But you always were so sensitive. It's not a good trait in a captain."
John could almost see Marty's limbs jerking at the leverage of the strings Jim had attached to him. He was nothing but Jim's pawn. His fucktoy, his puppet, his representative. John didn't know when it had ever been clearer just how powerless Marty was without Jim above him, pulling his strings.
John was brought back to earth by a vibratory buzz in his pocket. His mobile. He stood up from the table, without looking at any of them and walked towards the door.
Outside in the corridor, Ben caught up with him. "Just ignore that git!" he said. "He's an idiot."
"No, he's not," John said, not looking back at him. "He's right. I'm over. Everyone agrees with him. Or are they all idiots too?"
Ben made a frustrated sound. "You can't let that prick be captain. Him...and Jim. They're not good news."
John turned to him. "Then why don't you do something about it?" he said sharply. "It's much safer to send me into the fray to do the dirty work and get my arse kicked, isn't it? Safer and easier."
Ben shook his head wordlessly. He seemed to have no words to reply to what John knew was the absolute truth.
"I've had enough," John said in a low voice. "I give up."
He turned his back on him and escaped into his dorm room alone. He sunk down onto his bed, wiping away the dampness from his eyes. The pain he felt at his friends' predictable betrayal was greater than he had expected or knew was sensible. He had always known them capable of it; he didn't know why he hadn't realised sooner just how right Sherlock had always been. John had allowed himself to think it was part of their nature, uncontrollable and irresistible. But it wasn't. They were just weak. Weak and frightened. And they had no loyalty to anyone but themselves.
And what was worse was that he didn't know if someone else, some other boy was in the situation he was in that he would react differently. Perhaps all human beings were, at their core, bad. Sherlock had always seemed to think so.
John pulled his mobile out of his pocket, but didn't open the new message there. It was from Sherlock. Of course. But suddenly John felt very tired, too tired to deal with Sherlock. He tossed his phone onto his desk and collapsed onto his side, curling into his covers like a child and letting the tears tremble down his cheeks.
...
Sherlock was woken by the sound of voices in the corridor and someone walking around his dorm room. He lifted his head up with difficulty, staring across to where Ben was buttoning his school shirt. He stared past him to the window; sunlight was only just starting to creep through the crack in the curtains.
Ben glanced at him; his tie was hanging untied around his neck. "You better get up. Harvey's called an assembly."
Sherlock watched him groggily. It was the first time Ben had spoken to him. It was difficult to comprehend it while half asleep. He hadn't gotten more than four hours sleep the night before.
He watched from beneath the covers as his roommate tied his tie loosely around his neck and preened his short, dark hair in the mirror nailed to the door. He glanced at Sherlock as he leant down to pick up his school bag, but didn't speak.
Sherlock waited until he was gone before slipping out from under the covers. He leant across to his desk and picked up his mobile from the place he had tossed it the night before, after waiting three fruitless hours for John to respond to his text message. He refused to follow it up with a secondary text. He was not in the habit of harassing people to talk to him. If John had something better to do than fornicate with him, then so be it.
He stared at the blank screen. No messages. No calls. It had been-
He checked his watch with furrowed eyebrows.
"Twelve hours," he muttered, dropping it back onto the desk.
It was the longest period of time John had taken to reply to a text of his. He stared blankly at the door of his room. Without meaning to, his mind was conjuring up excuses for why John hadn't replied. He must have been working on the play; it was due in a few days. He must have been held up with homework or with his friends. He wouldn't knowingly ignore Sherlock's text. Surely not.
Sherlock gave himself an irritated shake. He was only too aware of just how pathetic it was to stand around in his pyjamas, wondering why his boyfriend handed texted him back.
He arrived at the assembly hall just as the rest of the grade were being ushered in through the doors. Ms. Stone was standing by the door, waving boys in like a short, plaid clad policewoman. He searched the crowd for John, but despite spotting his usual crowd near the doors he didn't see head or tail of John. Or Jim.
He didn't know whether to peg this as a coincidence or a bad sign.
He waited at a safe distance from the crowd, watching John's friends talk in low voices amongst themselves. He wasn't oblivious to the changes within the ranks of the football team. He tried to ignore them for John's sake, but it was obvious to him that John's power was waning. And rapidly. And he had no doubt it was due to Jim Moriarty and his puppet.
He watched Marty standing unsmilingly among his increasingly sycophantic teammates. What a difference a powerful ally made. How interesting it was to watch Marty morph from an idiotic fop to something sleeker, smarter and more dangerous. Or at least create the illusion of being so.
"You must stop making eyes at my confidante, Sherlock. You'll make me jealous."
Sherlock didn't turn. The heated breath against his ear made goosebumps trickle down his neck. The sensation was so rapid that he didn't have time to prevent a throb of heat shooting straight to his groin.
Jim appeared, a derisive smile playing on his mouth. "All hot and bothered, Sherlock? Isn't your blonde boytoy taking care of you?"
"No need to fear, Jim. I wouldn't touch your confidante with a ten-foot pole," Sherlock said coldly.
Jim's smile widened. "Oh, I know you wouldn't, Sherlock. Because then I'd have to destroy that pretty face of his. And I do so hate destroying pretty things."
Sherlock sniffed and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Marty watching them. Despite his hatred for Jim, he took a childish and spiteful relish in making the brute jealous. He knew that every trifling encounter between Jim and Sherlock would be agony to Marty.
"Look at him," Jim simpered, his eyes also fixed on Marty. "He is so loyal. Better than a dog. Better than anything in fact. What every person needs is someone they can exploit. Suck of every drop of their independent spirit until they're little more than a withering parasite feeding off every trifling scrap you choose to toss their way."
Sherlock jerked his head towards him with a snarl. "You don't know what you're talking about. John is nothing like Marty. He is ten times the person that slimy cretin will ever be."
Jim's eyes fixed on his. He seemed to draw everything he could from Sherlock just by looking at him; he extracted everything from Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock couldn't stop him. He leant forward and Sherlock didn't expect the hands on his collar and didn't have time to step back. He felt like every eye was on them.
"Get your hands off of me," he snarled, shoving Jim's hand away.
His touch felt like it had left a burn on his skin. He could have traced the place where Jim's fingers had touched. They should have been icy cold, but they were warm. Warm and soft.
Jim's mouth quirked into a half-formed smirk. His dark eyes glittered. "Catch you later, Sherlock."
Sherlock watched him join Marty and the rest of the football team. They were darting glances towards Sherlock, wide-eyed and confused. Sherlock knew what protection Jim had bestowed on him against his own wishes. Nobody would dare victimize someone Jim Moriarty appeared to have an explainable tolerance for. Sherlock was safe, he was under Jim's protection. And he loathed it.
"Boys," Ms. Stone's cut-ice tone sounded loudly from the door. "Get inside this instance. You'll be late for Mr. Harvey."
Sherlock slowly moved to follow the others. He was the last inside. He looked over his shoulder before reluctantly letting the doors swing shut behind him. John still hadn't arrived. His stomach gave an uneasy swirl.
Principal Harvey looked grim. Perhaps it was just the combination of his grey suit and grey tie, but there was something uncharacteristically ashen about him. Sherlock could see the teachers sitting along the front row. Ms Stone was in Hurst's empty place.
"Boys! Silence!" His voice rumbled through the assembly hall, his usual reluctance to raise his voice over them seemingly forgotten in his agitation. "Hurry up, boy! Find a seat. And you there, quieten down this instant."
Total silence almost immediately fell, except for the occasional cough or shrill squeak of a chair. Harvey held the front of the stand on the pulpit, his hammy knuckles flushing white the tighter he clasped it.
Harvey swept a slow eye over them and then opened his mouth. "Now, I-"
There was a low growl, as the doors of the assembly hall opened. Almost every head turned in the direction of the noise. Sherlock didn't, but he could tell from the derisive snickers and expressions who it was. His skin burned with resentment.
"Watson," Harvey snarled, his moustache bristling. "You're late! This meeting was called for 7:30 sharp! Or do you think you are somehow exempt from school procedure?"
There was a low rumble of laughs. Sherlock gripped the edge of his seat hard, willing himself not to snap and retort. John wouldn't want that. It would just make the situation worse.
"I'm sorry, sir," John said. He sounded calm, but Sherlock detected the humiliation in his voice.
He shuffled down a few steps, clearly searching for an empty seat. Harvey's eyes were fixed on him, narrowed and pig-like. Sherlock felt a rush of hatred for the man. "Take the seat next to Holmes," he said through gritted teeth, still with a perfect clarity that rang around the hall like a bell.
Sherlock didn't dare turn his head as John lowered himself into the seat next to him. He was warm from running. He was breathing a little hard; Sherlock could see his chest rising and falling out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock had a remarkably vivid image in his head of fucking John in his seat while their classmates watched on in stunned silence. He could almost hear John as he moaned, his body rolling off of him and down again in desperate waves.
His mouth was dry.
"Now," Harvey said at length, his piggish little eyes passing over them all again. "I'm sure you would have realised by now that Mr. Hurst, your English teacher and one of our home class teachers is no longer in either position."
There were a few nods and quiet murmurs, but no one seemed overwhelmingly concerned by this occurrence. Sherlock sat up a little straighter in his seat.
"And I am also sure you have become acquainted with his replacement, Ms. Jessica Stone." He gestured to Stone's boxy figure in the front row. "Now, no doubt rumours will take flight following this... unexpected occurrence." Harvey paused, stroking his moustache with a finger and thumb.
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. Nerves. Curious.
"I wish to address these promptly and directly. Mr. Hurst will be leaving us for personal reasons relating to his health. These reasons are not necessary to go into, but suffice to say that lies and gossip-mongering will be met with severe consequences." He lapsed into silence, his nostrils flaring in a challenging manner.
There was total silence. Sherlock could almost feel everyone digesting this information and wondering just how diabolical the circumstances of Hurst's departure must be to warrant such damage control.
"Now," Harvey released a long breath. "That being said, I am sure Ms. Stone will be a more than adequate replacement and I'm sure you will all farewell Mr. Hurst very amiably before he leaves tomorrow."
Sherlock almost laughed aloud. He could just imagine what farewell Jim and his loyal followers would give Hurst. Whatever it was Jim had had over Hurst, he had clearly used it. In the end, Jim had discovered the information for himself. He had no use for Hurst now.
Sherlock fixed his eyes on the boy eight rows down. His head was tilted to one side. He could almost picture the bored expression on his face. How trifling another's person misery was to him. Not even worth the energy to gloat over.
They were dismissed and Sherlock waited a safe amount of time before following John, pretending to tie his shoelace for at least one good, long minute. John rose and left him without a word or glance. Sherlock almost yearned for a look. Just a look. But John was just doing what he had taught him to do: look on him with total indifference.
The courtyard outside was empty. He took his time walking back to class, walking around the stairs outside the assembly hall three times and letting Harvey's words bubble over him like water.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he almost jumped out of his skin. Touching his heart with a hand, he pulled it out and felt it leap foolishly at the sight of "John" on the screen.
Meet me in the dark room? John x
Sherlock stared at the 'x' after John's name. He couldn't remember John ever using that little 'x' before.
"Now?" he replied.
Three seconds later his phone buzzed in his hand.
Unless you have something better to do.
Sherlock slid his phone into his pocket. He wondered if John had had the same thoughts he had had while he had been sitting there in the assembly hall. He could almost feel his cock hardening as he walked in the direction of the dark room.
He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He slowly opened it, frowning down at the doorknob. John didn't have a key. He was the only one with a key. He wracked his brain, trying hard to remember whether he had stupidly left the door unlocked the last time they had been there. It had been over a week ago, but he was almost certain that he had locked it fast.
He tentatively opened the door and let the light fall into the gloom. Almost simultaneously pain blurred his vision.
He was yanked roughly inside and he heard the door slam shut behind him with a deafening smash. The light was turned on and he was almost disorientated by the sudden, sickly light.
Marty pushed him roughly into the bench behind him. It slammed painfully into his hips. "What the fuck are you doing?" he spat, gripping at the hand on his neck.
There was such an expression of loathing and resentment on Marty's face. Sherlock knew that there was pain in that anger, and jealousy. He could taste it.
"Let go of me, Hester," Sherlock growled, watching him carefully. "This won't help."
"Just shut the fuck up, Holmes," Marty spat. He let go of him and stepped back, breathing roughly. He ran a hand through his hair. "You fucking touch him and I'll kill you, you hear me?"
"You think I want anything to do with that psychopathic bastard?" Sherlock said coldly.
Marty's jaw set rapidly and Sherlock knew he had crossed the line. Agony erupted in his jaw and he stumbled to his knees, gripping his face. He felt something damp and thick hit the back of his neck and realised in disgust what it was as it trickled down his back.
He watched hunched over as Marty's feet retreated towards the door. It opened and closed with a curt snap. He was left in the yellowy gloom. His face was throbbing and he could feel his nose and bottom lip was bleeding. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed it away.
He got to his feet and walked to the door. He stuck the key in and turned the knob but it didn't budge. He shoved it hard and it gave a bare inch but he could see the legs of a chair Marty had shoved against the door to trap him inside. He stepped back with a frustrated huff.
He retreated back to the bench, pushing the tissue back to his jaw. He felt utterly stupid. It should have been the little 'x' that gave it away. Of course it hadn't been John. Of course it hadn't. He should have realised that from the moment he set eyes on it. He had never felt so duped in his life. But he didn't think Marty had accomplished such a plot by himself. In fact he knew it. This bore the brand of someone who relished in trickery.
This suspicion was soon proved correct by the sound of the chair being pulled back from the door. The clean light from the hallway drifted into the darkness and a silhouette stood in the doorway, completely obscured in the gloom.
"You can never face me yourself, can you?" he said, as the door was shut again and the hallway light was swallowed.
Jim walked over to him, his face finally visible in the yellow light. His eyes took in Sherlock's appearance, settling on his hair, his lips, his nose, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his-
"What the hell do you want?" Sherlock said brusquely, straightening up with difficulty and trying to ignore the pain in his face.
Jim cocked his head at him and then his eyes settled on his busted bottom lip. Before Sherlock could pull away, he had leant out a pale, cold hand and pressed his thumb against it. Sherlock heard a gasp leave his lips.
Jim pulled his hand away. There was blood smeared across his thumb. "He hurt you?"
"What do you care?" Sherlock said thickly. The darkroom was far too stuffy, the air was far too close.
"I told him not to touch you," Jim said quietly, his eyes fixed on his thumb. "The little rat. He disobeyed me."
"Yes, I think your little minion lost control of himself," Sherlock said spitefully. "I think he got a little jealous. Too bad. I thought you had him better trained."
Jim's eyes snapped to his. He smirked widely. "No matter. Minions are always dispensable. And who knows..." He lifted the thumb to his mouth and Sherlock watched in numb horror as he lapped the blood away with a smooth motion of his tongue. He dropped his hand, licking his lips slowly over. "I may train him yet."
The motion of Jim's thumb, his skin against his tongue had elicited a violent shiver from Sherlock and he couldn't stop it erupting through his body. Jim's eyes seemed to burn as he took a step towards him. "Don't you get tired of playing this game?"
"Yes, I'm very tired of playing this game," Sherlock mumbled, pushing back fruitlessly against the bench.
"Then admit it," Jim said. His lips were open and Sherlock could smell the spicy cologne on him, the expensive scent. "You want to kiss me."
"No," Sherlock said, his mouth so dry he could barely form words. "You've cooked up a sick fantasy in your own warped mind. I want nothing to do with you."
Jim tittered, and rolled up onto his toes to close to space between them. He was so close. Sherlock could see every inch of his face like it was etched out of marble. In a confused, aroused jolt he realised how perfectly pale and gentle it was, how delicious the psychopath was and how hard he was pressed against his thigh.
Jim's lips grazed against his. It was like lightning had hit him and shot down through his body in one sickening jolt. He put his hands to Jim's chest and shoved him away with all his might. Jim staggered back, almost losing his balance completely. For the first time since meeting him Sherlock saw surprise flicker through Jim's eyes.
"So aggressive," Jim said, his voice slightly shrill.
Sherlock turned on his heel and walked towards the door without a word.
"You know you can't escape me that easily, Sherlock!" Jim sang loudly after him.
Sherlock slammed the door open, blinking the harsh natural light out of his eyes. He started walking, though he didn't know where he was going and didn't think any measure of exertion could erase what he had just allowed to happen.
End of Chapter Twenty-Four