Could you take care of a broken soul?
Will you hold me now?
Will you take me home?
Chapter Twenty-Five:
The parcel had arrived at Redverse a few days after John. It was flat and not very large. Probably only seven or eight inches long. On one side was an untidy scrawl indicating the school's address and on the other he could vaguely decipher his home address.
He turned it slowly over, as though the blank brown paper might give him some clue as to what was inside. It was very light, very oddly shaped. He had no idea what his mother could be possessed to send him. Late Christmas present? Something he had forgotten? He couldn't put his finger on it.
He heard the door open behind him and quickly shoved it into the open drawer. Below it in a pile was the medical school application form Sherlock had pilfered from his bedroom. He gave it a fleeting look before slamming the drawer closed.
"Hi, Billy," he said hastily, spinning around to face his roommate.
Billy looked at him very briefly, with the barest of grunts in greeting before lumbering over to his side of the room, dropping his school bag with a heavy thump onto the carpet.
John tried not to notice how cold Billy's behaviour towards him had become in recent days. He tried not to notice how he barely spoke to him, how his eyes darted away every time John looked at him, how he seemed to find every excuse possible to not acknowledge John's existence. John tried not to care, but it hurt.
He watched Billy shift through the confused pile of clothes and schoolbooks on his bed, his back turned almost pointedly to his roommate. John slowly turned back around, staring across his very clean desk. He'd cleaned it the evening before. It had been partly out of frustration at no longer being able to fit his laptop on his desk the clutter was such, and partly out of pure restlessness.
He seemed to be slowly becoming overwhelmed with schoolwork. As due dates crept closer for Maths, Science, History and, most worryingly of all, the play he found himself spending longer and longer nights crouched over his desk, working by the light of his phone sometimes when Billy complained about the glare of his lamp.
Billy obviously found what he was looking for amongst the confusion of his belongings, John heard him beginning to toss everything back to its usual resting place on his unmade bed. John kept almost saying something to him, kept almost asking him where the rest of the team was. Probably in the common room. And he didn't like to go in there if he could help it these days.
"What time is practice again?" he finally managed to choke out.
There was silence. John's arms tensed on the desk. "Five," Billy said at length, the word barely more than one indistinct syllable.
He left, leaving the room faintly shaking from the slammed door. John exhaled slowly and stood. His heart was throbbing agitatedly in his chest.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on steadying his breathing and not the overwhelming sensation of panic that seemed to come on without warning these days. He needed to get out of the dorm room. Those four walls were becoming unbearable. Sometimes he couldn't take being trapped there. The feeling came increasingly frequently in recent times.
He left the incarceration of his solitary room and headed blindly for the school grounds, walking as quickly as possible. He didn't like to walk around by himself. He wasn't used to it. He wasn't like Sherlock who seemed to thrive on his own company. He didn't like to be looked at while he was alone, he didn't like to be seen as a loner. But he was increasingly having no choice.
It wasn't safe for him and Sherlock to hang around each other. That was that. It had been decided. It wasn't safe.
So for a week he hadn't touched Sherlock, he hadn't kissed him, he hadn't felt his arms around him, he hadn't been within three feet of him for longer than the briefest of moments.
Sherlock thought it was best. And, reluctantly, John agreed. Things weren't the same now. They weren't too clever to be caught. They weren't infallible.
And Jim Moriarty knew.
It made John sick to even think about it. Made him sick with embarrassment and regret. Embarrassment that Moriarty knew what he was hiding, knew that he was not even one cell the person he endeavoured to project to the world and regretful that he had been so smug and short-sighted as to not think that they would eventually be caught.
He reached the sunlit courtyard and stopped to catch his breath by the stone steps. It was a rare day. Very temperate and sunny. The remainder of the hardest, deepest strains of winter seemed to be loosening and melting away. Maybe not physically, but there was something in the air that suggested that winter was waning.
The end of winter was always a source of relief to John. May. May was the most perfect month. It was the last month of football. And then he was free. He could pretend for two months that he wasn't captain of the team, that he was just an anonymous nobody. Not a footballer. Just a teenage nobody.
He lifted the sleeve of his school jumper to his face, burying his nose and face in it. Somewhere in the scratchy acrylic fibres was the long-lost scent of a long burnt-out cigarette. It was gone. As gone as a smell could be. He'd washed his jumper at least twice since it had settled there, but he'd developed a vaguely concerning habit of sniffing the same fibres as though it were still there. Sometimes he could still decipher it amongst the sterile stench of the school's washing powder.
He dropped his arm to his side, glancing over his shoulder to the stern stretch of brick and unwashed windows. There were only some moments that he truly relished by himself, and indulging in his tendency to act like a lovesick puppy was one of them. He would never, ever admit to Sherlock just how much he missed him. It would be too humbling.
Though he had a hunch that Sherlock already knew. Very much so.
...
And just like that they had decided that things had to stop. Sherlock had decided things had to stop. He didn't know when everything had become clear, but as he had been walking away from the darkroom, suddenly what he knew was necessary came sharply into focus.
He wrapped his swarf once more around his neck, covering every slither of white flesh in the deep blue folds. John had bought it for him for Christmas, a very late Christmas present from the local Marks and Spencer, and more in jest than earnest but Sherlock liked it. It was longer and thicker than his own two scarves. And the thought that he had something John had touched coiled around his neck was becoming very comforting to him.
The floodlight above him was attracting a multitude of insects and every so often one of the little buggers would meet its demise, flying stupidly into the electrical light and rain down onto Sherlock like little, living snowflakes.
He tiredly raised a hand to flick a dead moth off his shoulder. It wasn't ideal. But- he glanced down towards the ever shrinking mob of Redverse parents huddling further up the sideline- it was better than the alternative.
He was too far from the pitch to know what was happening, even if he had understood the first thing about football. The haze of the floodlight above him made it almost impossible to make out John from Billy Pip. The oversized oaf had reappeared that evening, covered on his hands and legs from the persistent scars of his misadventure. Sherlock doubted whether some of them would ever fade. He'd forever bear the marks of Jim Moriarty's malice.
Sherlock shivered, and pulled his scarf tighter against him. It was a reassuring, soft weight against his throat. He screwed his eyes up, grimacing at his own blunder. Now it was there. The poisonous seed, sprouting roots, penetrating the depths of his mind. Every time he thought he had succeeded in weeding out the traces of Jim Moriarty that still resided in his brain, he foolishly stirred them again, the shards always lurking darkly in the depths of his mind.
He opened his eyes again and the foggy figures on the field swam back into sight. The sounds of their shouts swelling up into the air and the mechanical beat of a plastic shoe coming into contact with the plastic football rushed back into his consciousness. The smell of wet grass and cold air, the frustrated bursts of sound from the mob of parents, the shrill cry of the referee's whistle: it all rushed back. Sherlock drank it in, trying to drown the thoughts in his mind.
The players had stopped short where they were on the pitch. Apparently that particularly loud blast of the referee's whistle had triggered their sudden inaction, when moments ago they had been fiercely flinging themselves against the bitter night air.
They stared around, looking from where Sherlock was standing like blank, gormless sheep the way they were wandering about, some bent over from the effort of running, hands on their knees and backs heaving with the effort of sucking the oxygen they had spent back into their lungs.
Sherlock couldn't distinguish John from the rest of them. Well, that was a lie. He could have. He could have recognised John's walk, his movements, the way he caught his breath after exertion, the way he ran his hands through his hair to cool his scalp, the way he- Sherlock wasn't going to let himself recognise him. If he stared at the whole of them, not focusing in too hard on one person then it wasn't too difficult. His senses didn't seem to function quite so aptly when he focused on groups rather than individuals.
The players were starting to walk off the field, slowly and with the look of a beaten mule that had taken one too many lashes from its master. Sherlock realised with relief that the game was over. He abandoned his lone post and walked back down towards the confusion of people, as the teammates diluted the parental mob.
At the very rear of the team, with muddy knees and his hair limp with sweat was John. His eyes flickered over Sherlock, too quickly and too fearfully to be natural. Sherlock watched him. He could have been caught a dozen times over, the way his eyes had attached themselves to John's flesh, but the others were too shell-shocked to pay attention to anyone outside of their sphere of self-pity.
John's hair was sticking to his forehead. It was damp and starting to dry out in place into crusty shards of blonde. His cheeks were starting to lose their flush of exertion, instead to be replaced by a flush of cold. And, Sherlock suspected, embarrassment under the close scrutiny he knew he was receiving. Sherlock thought there could be a little anger in that flush too. And why not, Sherlock thought. Why the hell shouldn't he be angry?
"John."
John jerked a little where he was standing, and a moment later Sherlock knew why. His father appeared behind him, barely taller than John and wearing his customary grey suit. He laid a hand on John's shoulder, fingers tightening on the ridge of John's collarbone until it must have been uncomfortable. If not downright painful.
John finally gave into his father's unsaid request and allowed himself to be steered away from the crowd. Sherlock watched him go, eyes narrowed.
He tried to keep his eyes on them, but it was difficult with the tangle of parents and sweaty teammates, dousing themselves with water and calmly bearing the grumbled lectures of their disappointed parents. Sherlock could make out words like "embarrassment", "disgrace", "pathetic".
He eyed Marty a few metres to his left. He was aware of Sherlock's presence. He had looked at him, seen him. His cold blue eyes had settled directly onto him, drinking him in like he was calculating the threat he posed.
Because he knew very well that Sherlock posed a threat. He may have been ignorant, but he wasn't stupid. Perhaps he knew he was a pawn, or perhaps he merely thought he had a rival for Jim's attention. Sherlock wasn't certain, but he was certain that Marty's leash was tight in the hand of someone else now; he was no more than a puppet, a plaything. His alpha dog status had, whether anyone truly knew it or not, disappeared the day he had become obsessed with Jim Moriarty.
But Marty's humiliation was no comfort to Sherlock. He was now in the sights of a far more dangerous enemy.
Marty turned his back to him. Sherlock suddenly realised that, unlike his teammates, his frame was almost bone dry. It wasn't stained with sweat and mud and water. It didn't look to Sherlock like he had exerted himself particularly hard on the pitch. He glanced at Marty's father to see how he was taking this new apathy in his son. Mr. Hester's bloated face was calm. He looked almost indifferent to the commotion around him. He and his son were side by side and neither was talking. It didn't seem at all right to Sherlock.
His examination of Marty was suddenly interrupted by John's reappearance. He forced his way between his teammates, his eyes fixed on Marty. The expression on his face was such that Sherlock's stomach gave an uneasy lurch at what he was certain was about to happen.
In front of him, he watched as John reached Marty and his hands raised to come roughly into contact with his taller teammate's shoulders. One sharp shove backwards and Marty was coming back at him with a shove of his own, strong enough to send John reeling back into one of the mothers behind him. She gave a squawk and all eyes were suddenly on the two boys facing each other and wearing twin expressions of pure antipathy.
Sherlock took a step forward, almost unconsciously. Marty looked sharply at him and then back to John. Sherlock saw the accusation on his lips. He saw it in Marty's eyes: the question he already knew the answer to. He could have destroyed John with that question; he wanted to. He wanted to humiliate John in front of his team more desperately than anything, but he wouldn't. Not without permission.
Speaking of which. Sherlock cast an eye over the gaggle of onlookers. The remaining parents were gathered like a ring around the outside of the group, watching in like Colosseum spectators; the players were in an untidy bunch in the middle, watching in evident fascination this display of team politics. Sherlock scanned them face to face, but he could tell from his brief sweep that he wasn't there. It was unusual for him. Sherlock knew how he loved to watch chaos and conflict ensue.
Sherlock felt like a spectator himself. Like someone on the other side of the glass. No one was paying the least bit of attention to him. A few cautionary glances were thrown in his direction but he could have been disguised as a bush for all the effect he was having on the tense partakers.
"You bastard," John hissed, his knuckles curling into fists either side of him. "You gutless bastard! You couldn't even tell me yourself? You had to get my-my father- he spat the word like it left a poisonous taste in his mouth – to do it for you?"
"Now, now!" Marty's father boomed, his oversized stomach preceding him as he took a few steps towards the two boys. "Let's not deteriorate into all this stupid arguing! We have to make a few tough decisions here. I know it ain't easy, but it's got to be done."
John's lip curled, but he said nothing. Beside him his father's face was slowly becoming overrun by a splotchy red hue; his eyes were fixed fiercely and narrowly on Bruce Hester, as though he'd like nothing more than to run at him himself.
There were perturbed murmurs from amongst the parents. It was clear that the team's turmoil had been far from a small concern in their minds. The players themselves seemed almost too tired and demoralized to much care what was going on about them. Sherlock thought that only two seemed to be watching the events unfolding between the two fathers and sons with any real interest. Billy Pip's piggish eyes were darting between the four of them, his thick brows deeply furrowed. And a foot or so away from Billy was Sherlock's roommate Ben, staring blankly at Marty, as though he couldn't quite believe what was about to play out in front of him.
Sherlock realised then that this was not a sporadic occurrence to all involved. It may have been a nasty shock to John, but some, maybe not all, but some of his friends knew very well this had been in store.
"Let's talk about this sensibly now," Bruce said in what he evidently thought to be a reasonable tone, resting a pudgy hand on his son's shoulder. He was wearing a loose blue button-up shirt that ballooned over his oversized stomach. "The team has been underperforming for weeks now. It's not what we're used to. It's not what anyone involved is used to! Teachers, parents and players alike. We put a hell of a lot of effort into this team, it's a damned shame to see it floundering."
There were murmurs and nods of agreement from the surrounding parents. It was obvious that most of them were ready to blindly follow whatever Bruce Hester had to say. He was loud and obnoxious, just like his son and he was a leader. When he spoke, people listened. Whether it was through bullying, manipulation or rhetoric, he would recruit people to his cause.
"We owe it to this team to make the necessary changes, as hard as they may be." He shook his head with a regretful sigh. "Marty," his hand tightened on his son's shoulder. "Maybe you should take it from here."
John's eyes, which had been boring resentfully into Bruce, snapped onto Marty. As did those of everyone else around him. Sherlock glanced at Marty's face. If he was intimidated by the attention, it didn't show. He seemed to have been steeling himself for this moment for a long time.
"I'm offering myself up as captain," he said, after a brief pause.
Behind him his father gave a loud cough, patting his son's shoulder hastily with one hand and flattening his shirt in a blustery way with the other. "What my son means to say is," he said loudly, over the voices that erupted at his son's words. "He wants to help mend the troubles the team has been having."
The parents were chattering fervently amongst themselves, it was difficult to tell whether Marty's announcement had taken them by surprise. The team seemed less affected: some were eyeing each other in a wary fashion, but otherwise there was barely any reaction at all from them. Sherlock's belief that they had known ahead of time strengthened.
"I can't believe this," John said lividly, barely audible over the noise from the parents.
"It's nothing against you, John!" Bruce said hastily, as his son yanked himself out of his grip. He walked across to the edge of the field, turning his back on the mob.
"It has everything to do with me!" John spat at him. Sherlock was taken aback by the bile in John's voice. He had never seen him speak that way to anyone, let alone an adult. "I'm the captain of this team! We've won over fifty games, you know that? Over fifty. And a couple of bad days and you're done with me?"
"John, John, John! Don't be so dramatic," Bruce said, tearing his eyes off his son.
Near him Mr. Watson was staring stonily ahead. He hadn't taken his son's shoulders like Mr. Hester had. His hands were buried stiffly in his pockets; his mouth was thinned into a pencil thin line.
"You're a fucking coward," John said, eyes narrowed at Marty's turned back.
Marty whirled around and threw himself in John's direction. The two boys collided into a furious scuffle. The boys around them roused almost immediately into action, trying to tear Marty off and shouting for them to stop.
"Marty! Marty!" Bruce was bellowing, trying to fight his way through the bodies towards his son, now dragging John to his feet by the collar of his shirt. "Leave off! Leave off, for God's sake!"
Sherlock found himself bodily trying to force his own way through the chaos. No one seemed to notice him, they were too busy trying to tear the fighting boys apart.
Finally, Marty was yanked forcibly backwards by three others. He had a blood nose and a busted lip, but John was sporting some angry marks on his cheeks and forehead that Sherlock had no doubt had come from Marty's fists.
He stopped short where he was, giving up on getting past the wall of bodies. He stared at Marty's dishevelled form, suddenly gripped by the decision that if he ever got the chance he would kill Marty in as painful and humiliating a fashion as he could design.
"That's enough, John," Mr. Watson suddenly snarled, roused like a creature made of stone. He placed both hands on John's shoulders, steering him forcefully out of the stew of his teammates and the parents who had waded in to extract their sons from the confusion.
"This is ridiculous!" one of them snapped, a balding man wearing thick black glasses. He was holding Ben tightly by one arm. "We can't carry on team matters like this."
"I'm sure we can settle this in a sensible manner," Bruce said in a strangled voice, clearly fearing he was losing control of his followers. "John... Marty... why don't we talk alone?"
"There's no need," Mr. Watson said sharply, his hand tight on John's shoulders. His knuckles were papery white. A trickle of blood was dribbling down from John's left nostril. "We understand the need for this perfectly, Bruce. There's no need to drag it out."
John jerked his shoulders out of his father's grip and stalked through the crowd and back towards the school, without a glance at anyone around him. There were uneasy mutters from his teammates.
"Fucking wanker," Marty said in a low voice, wiping the blood away from his mouth.
"Marty," Bruce hissed with a sharp tut.
Mr. Watson walked past the father and son, seeming not to hear Marty's insult. He walked after John, leaving the mob to Mr. Hester's expertise.
Sherlock walked numbly after him, his heart beating uncomfortably in his chest. Behind him he could hear the remainder of the rabble beginning to break out into chaos again, at the departure of John and his father.
Sherlock followed them up towards the steps, the grass was soaked and in the dark he couldn't avoid the muddy puddles and kept sinking up to his ankles in cold, filthy water. In the light of the lamp at the top of the playing field steps he could see John waiting for his father. He looked very small and very defeated standing there alone in the dirty light of the lamp.
Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs just as John's father was reaching his son. "What the hell do you think you were doing?" he said, the fury so evident in his demeanour on the pitch finally bursting through.
"He came at me," John spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"But you didn't have to start carrying on like some brainless hooligan!" his father spat back at him. "You think it makes you look like a man carrying on like this? You think it makes them respect you when you carry on like a sore loser?"
"I should have known that the only time you'd start giving a shit about me is when you sense I might start screwing up your image," John snarled.
"How dare you speak to me like that," Mr. Watson breathed. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Sherlock walked up another step; his hands were trembling beside him in the darkness. John's face came into view at the top of the stairs. The expression on his face was one of mingled anger and hurt, both seemed to be fighting for dominance in his eyes.
"Maybe you can face it now, dad," John went on in a furious burst, "I'll never be a football star. I'll never play for England. I don't even want to play for Redverse. Did you know that? I don't even give a shit about it. I never have."
"You ungrateful little bastard." Mr Watson balled John's shirt up in his fist, yanking his face up towards him. "Do you know everything I've done for you? Do you even comprehend how much you have to lose?"
"You mean, I might screw up your dream. I might not achieve your dream for you," John said softly, a spiteful tinge coming into his voice. "The dream you could never get because you just weren't good enough-"
Mr. Watson moved so quickly that Sherlock didn't realise what he was about to do. Then he heard a loud slap, like something hitting water at high speed. John reeled back, almost losing his balance where he was.
Sherlock took the remainder of the stairs two at a time, his eyes fixed on where John was clutching his face and staring at his father in blank disbelief. He stepped in between them, eyes fixed on John's father. "That's enough," he told Mr. Watson, staring at the man's lined face, the dark circles under his eyes and his wiry yellow hair that seemed to add a sallow tinge to his tired complexion.
"Sherlock," Mr. Watson said, seeming out of breath. His eyes flickered from Sherlock's face to where John was behind him. His knuckles were shaking. "This is none of your concern."
"It is my concern," Sherlock said, struggling furiously to keep the fury from his voice as he stared at him. "If you lay another hand on him I'll call the authorities and I'll make sure they arrest you for assault. I'll then contact my parents. My parents are very rich, very well-connected; they could make life difficult for you. I'll make sure of it."
Mr. Watson's eyes snapped onto him. Sherlock thought for a moment he might hit him too. Then he gave a humourless bark of laughter. "How dare you threaten me."
"Leave, Mr. Watson," Sherlock said quietly.
Mr. Watson didn't reply and didn't speak. He stared over Sherlock's shoulder towards his son. Sherlock could hear John breathing unsteadily behind him, but he stayed silent.
"Alright," Mr. Watson said, swallowing. "Alright. I'll leave."
He took two steps forward and then stopped. Sherlock turned, watching him closely. He tried to lay a hand on John's arm, but John took a sharp step back. His features were gently contorting themselves, his mouth was trembling violently.
Silently, Mr. Watson walked past him and then down the steps, without a look back at either of them. Sherlock listened to his footsteps disappear onto the soft, wet grass. He could still hear the distant voices from the pitch.
John wasn't looking at him; he was staring away at the stairs, blinking furiously to get rid of the tears that had settled in his eyes.
"We better get back to the dorms," Sherlock said at length, distractedly fingering the end of the scarf.
John looked at him, all traces of impending emotion successfully quenched. "Is that it?"
"Is what it?" Sherlock replied, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs.
"I hate this," John said bitterly. "Why do we have to do this?"
"You know why," Sherlock said. "Come on, we need to go inside."
"You talk like... like it's not safe for us to be together," John said, grudgingly letting Sherlock steer him towards the school doors.
"It's not, John," Sherlock said. The sensation of John's warm back under his hand was sending ridiculously intense throbs of longing through his whole body. "I thought you knew that."
John made a frustrated sound and batted Sherlock's hand away. "Then maybe you should leave me alone."
They had reached the doors. John reached out a hand to open them; Sherlock laid a hand on his arm. He was starting to grow cold, now that the warmth of adrenaline was fading. "Please don't be angry, John. I... I know I'm not any good at showing it, but... but I-"
John exhaled shakily. "Please don't. You make it unbearable."
"We will be together, John," Sherlock said, staring at John's turned back. He wished he could open a secret door and protect John's heart himself, he wished he could hold it in his hands and protect it from pain and sadness. He would if he could.
"When? After this semester ends? After school ends? When?" John demanded, turning to him. The marks on his face were bright red against his skin.
"I wish you'd told me about your father," Sherlock said.
John hesitated, a hand unconsciously moving to touch the bruise forming on his jaw. "You knew what he was like."
"Has he ever hit you before?" Sherlock said. He thought that if John said 'yes' he would find it intensely difficult not to make good on his threat and see what Mycroft could do about making sure Mr. Watson never worked in a bank in England again.
"No," John said very quietly. "He hasn't."
Sherlock nodded. It made little difference. Mr. Watson had shown himself to be the cowardly brute that Sherlock had always suspected him of being, and he would stop at nothing to make certain that John was never hurt by him again.
"I need to go to bed," John said finally, breaking the unbearable silence between them. "I'm shattered."
Sherlock nodded, lifting a hand. He caught himself at the last minute and lowered it again. It would only make things worse. "Goodnight," he said numbly.
"Goodnight," John said, turning his back on him and disappearing through the school doors.
Sherlock watched him inside. The doors closed with a slap behind him and John's figure disappeared from behind the frosted glass.
...
John picked up the pillows on his bed and stared fruitlessly underneath them for what could have been the fiftieth time that week. He dropped them again with an impatient sigh and turned to walk back to his desk.
On top of his laptop, stapled several times because of the sheer bulk of the document, was the final copy of the play. It was due in almost exactly four hours. John had more or less finished it by himself. Sherlock had offered to help him more than once, but John had shrugged him off.
He was almost angry that Sherlock was so determined to inflict his presence on John when he had been the one who had told him how necessary, how important it had been for them to keep their distance. He was almost angry that Sherlock didn't seem to understand that John couldn't bear being around him if he had to pretend that they didn't know each other.
He absentmindedly ran a finger down the edge of the play. It was probably not 'A' material. Especially not from Ms. Stone, who had proven to be a very hard marker. Much harder than Hurst, who had been usually fairly lenient when it came to grammar and punctuation.
But Hurst was long gone. He had left shortly after Harvey's odd speech the week before, without saying goodbye to the students and without offering a word of explanation himself for his departure. Rumours, despite Hurst's attempts to stop them, had swirled. Everything from his being arrested for drugs possession to his going to America to get married.
John had to admit that it felt like he had lost an ally. Hurst may have been stern, but he had liked John and respected him. And John was very aware that his list of fans was growing shorter by the day.
He slid the play into a manila folder and put it in the top drawer. The gift from his mother was still sitting there. He admittedly had only half forgotten about it. He just couldn't face opening it. He didn't want to think about his parents for a very long time. It wasn't the first time he had been grateful for the distance between them.
He turned back to the empty dorm room, casting an irritated eye over it. His belongings were in good order. There wasn't really anywhere something could go missing in, something like a mobile phone.
He hadn't seen it for over a week and it would have been a gross lie if he had claimed that he wasn't concerned. Texts to Sherlock that he stupidly hadn't deleted yet, calls to Sherlock that he hadn't removed from the log. It was very damning evidence.
He didn't know whether to be comforted by the fact that no one had confronted him about it so far. They could be biding their time. They could be deciding how best to humiliate him. It was troubling, and he found it hard not to dwell on it every time he lay down in bed at night.
He gave a small jump as his anxious thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the dorm door. He stared at it, without moving. He knew immediately it couldn't be Billy, who always barged in at any time of the day or night.
He slowly walked across and opened it. He couldn't help wondering whether it was someone about to confront him with his missing phone.
"Oh hi," he said, finding himself instead faced with Ben. His insides squirmed with embarrassment at his foolishness.
"Hey, John," Ben said, smiling a small, oddly sheepish smile. "You busy?"
"Not really," John replied. "Need me for something?"
"Well, actually," Ben said, shifting uncomfortably where he was. "Harvey wants to see you."
John stared at him. "Why? Have I... done something?" He immediately wracked his brain for what he could have done to incur Harvey's wrath. The only thing he could think of was the brief altercation between him and Marty on Friday. He touched his cheek. He had three nasty bruises from that night, though only two were from Marty.
"I don't know," Ben said. He hesitated. "I don't think so."
John shrugged. "Well, I better get to his office then I suppose. See you later."
Harvey's office was in the admin block, and was only accessible by appointment. Unless, of course, you were summoned there by Harvey himself.
John had never been called up to the office before so it was a fresh experience for him, sitting on the hard, carved bench opposite Harvey's door. It bore a little silver plaque with "M. Harvey" written in thick black letters.
The receptionist curiously eyed him from her desk, in between occasional outbursts of furious typing and the occasional phone call. John shifted uncomfortably where he was. The bench seemed to have been specifically designed to make the sitter as sore and antsy as possible. There wasn't so much as cushion to soften the experience.
Luckily, he didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later and there was a low growl as Hurst's door opened, revealing the principal himself in a navy blue suit. He looked tired and harassed, but broke out into an unconvincing smile as he saw John. "John! Come right in."
He disappeared back inside, leaving the door open behind him. John awkwardly followed him, feeling increasingly like a naughty child. He closed the door behind him and stared around the inside of the office. He had never been inside before. It was quite attractive compared to the other teacher's offices. It had polished floorboards, a wide walnut desk with a neat array of paper and books, and various like niceties like paintings on the walls and a handsome, little marble statuette on the nearby bookshelf.
"Take a seat," Harvey said, still smiling mechanically and gesturing to the two neat, little wooden chairs in front of his desk.
John sat, staring at the principal and increasingly mystified as to why he was there. "Thanks," he said awkwardly.
"Now," Harvey leant back heavily in his chair, pushing his reading glasses up onto his head, "I've heard that there has been a little... ah, tension in the football team. I was content to allow it to peter out, but I think it's gotten to the point where I really must step in. You do understand?"
John gave a half-shrug and nodded. "Yeah."
"I've already spoken to Mr. Hester about his part in the excitement on Friday night and I assure you that he understands the gravity of his actions very well," Harvey went on, in a pompous, sage manner. "But you must also accept that you had an equal share in the wrongdoing-"
"Equal share!" John burst out. "He attacked me!"
"But you did not have to reciprocate!" Harvey responded swiftly.
"What was I supposed to do? Just lay there while he pounded me?" John snapped. "He was punching me in the face."
Harvey held up a dismissive hand. "Now, now. Look, I have given Marty a very stern talking to, but holding grudges will do nothing to help the situation."
"There is no situation," John said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. "It's all been blown out of proportion!"
"John, John, John!" Harvey said, shaking his head and reminding him annoyingly of Bruce Hester. "We can't just ignore these things and hope they go away! We have to do what's best for all involved!"
"Yeah, and what's that?" John said quietly.
Harvey went slightly pink and sat forward again, giving a small cough. "No one doubts your talent, John. You have undeniable talent. I'm just wondering whether coaching the team and leading them into every game and also handling your studies is become a little... well, much for you."
"You think I should step down as captain too," John said bluntly.
"It's not a matter of what I think; it's a matter of what's right for the team," Harvey replied, the sage manner returning. "It's a matter of what's right for everyone!"
"I can't believe this," John said, staring blankly at him. "We've lost, what, six games? We've won over fifty. I've poured my life into that game."
"No one denies you've been a very conscientious captain," Harvey said hastily. "I understand."
"No, I don't think you do understand," John said in a hard voice. "I've been there at every practice, no matter how fucking foul the weather-"
"John!" Harvey interjected in a shocked voice.
"I've been at every game," John continued, raising his voice, "no matter how ill, how tired, how exhausted I was. I've been diplomatic, I've understood everybody's needs. I've done whatever anyone asked of me. I've taken over as goalie when Ben was sick, I've sat on the bench and watched every last minute when I've been too bunged up with flu to kick the ball straight. I've done everything for that team and... and this is what it comes down to?" His voice almost failed him. He shook his head, turning away from Harvey's infuriatingly taken aback expression.
"John," he said at length, in what he evidently hoped was a soothing tone. "We all know how hard you've worked. This is not a personal vendetta-"
"It's just business," John said in a hard voice. "Well, at least I know where I stand now. I'm glad. I'm glad that everyone has opened up my eyes. It's not about mateship, it's about winning. It's always been about winning. I was stupid to think any different."
Harvey was silent for a few moments. It was obvious he had not expected this reaction. He expected good-natured John Watson to just accept it like a good boy, just keep his mouth closed and smile and nod and make no difficulties. "Your well-being is very important to us, John. That's why the staff, me included, have decided that, despite recent occurrences, you may remain at Redverse after Marty ascends to captainship. You're a good player and I believe you will still serve the team very well."
John gave a humourless laugh. He wanted to comment on how gracious and giving the school was willing to be when it had no choice. If John left Redverse, the team would be one man down and then they would have little chance indeed of finishing the season top of the table.
"Thank you," he said tonelessly. "Can I go now?"
"Ah, no," Harvey said, almost sheepishly. "There is just one more thing I need to discuss with you."
John watched him, again wondering what he could have done. "Yes, sir?"
Harvey stood, wandering across to the window. He put his hands behind his back, clutching his hands together. "I would hate to pry into any student's private life, but sometimes necessity precedes courtesy." He paused. John stared at his back, his heart beginning to race. "I know you are a very well-rounded and well-liked fellow, John. I like to see a young man like that. It's healthy. But sometimes even those sorts can... go a little astray."
John wanted to shout at him to get to the point. His heart was thumping unbearably in his chest.
Harvey finally turned to him, looking very grave. "I will speak frankly. Sherlock Holmes is not the sort of boy you wish to throw in your lot with."
John stared at him. "W-what?" His mind had gone blank with panic. "I'm not- We're not-"
Harvey held up a hand to silence him. "I have heard from two respective parties about this issue, John and in light of this I must believe what I hear."
John didn't speak. He stared at Harvey in stunned silence. He was too in shock to even begin to think who those "parties" might be. But one must have been Marty. There was absolutely no other explanation.
"I promise you I have no interest in your personal life," Harvey went on seriously, "but I must advice you strongly to better choose your associates. Sherlock has no direction and no dedication to anything. He will not aid you in your ambitions and, if I may be frank, may threaten your position in this school in more ways than one."
Something clicked in John's mind. He watched Harvey, wondering if he could possibly mean what he thought he meant. There could be no other explanation. Those words were very plain in their intent. Rapidly, the panic was overrun by anger. He stood up, staring at Harvey with disbelief. "I can't believe this."
"John, sit down," Harvey said tiredly. "No theatrics please."
"You're threatening me," John snapped. "Who put you up to this? Marty? His father?" He paused, wracking his brain furiously. "My father?" he said finally.
Harvey simply looked at him. It was clear that he had had too much experience in this profession to give up his sources so easily. "John, sit down."
"No," John said coldly. "I'm going. Unless there are any other threats you'd like to make."
Harvey sighed in a long-suffering manner. "Fine, fine. Just know that I, the other teachers and the counsellor are all available if you ever need to... you know, talk. We do care, John."
John gave a disgusted scoff and turned for the door. He couldn't stand much more of this crap.
"I know you'll make the right choice, John."
John stopped at the sound of Harvey's calm voice. Even that sounded like a threat. "I have no choice," John said, not turning to him. "You don't need to worry. I won't screw up the team, I won't embarrass the team. I'll be a good boy like I've always been. It is my future after all."
Without waiting for Harvey to reply, he opened the door and left.
...
Sherlock had set aside an hour after dinner to escape to the darkroom. He hadn't stepped foot inside since the incident with Jim, and he hadn't wanted to. It now held a taint to it. Something that marred the moments he had had spent with John. It made him want to avoid it.
But today it was necessary. He had some business to attend to.
He unlocked the door and slipped inside, making sure to shut the door tight behind him. After he had turned the light on and allowed his eyes to adjust to the foul, sickly hue he could go to work.
He leant against the nearest bench and tugged his phone from his pocket. Since Marty had pilfered it (though he was still very vexed as to how) he had taken to changing the unlock code once a week. It made him feel much safer.
He opened his (very slim) contacts list and scrolled down until he found what he was looking for. The ringing made a very lade burr sound in the silence of the darkroom. He put it on speaker phone and put it beside him on the bench.
He didn't have to wait very long. No more than three rings at most.
"Mycroft Holmes."
His brother sounded self-important and brisk as usual. Sherlock glowered into the darkness. Of all the humiliating things in his life, this was the very worst.
"Mycroft, it's me."
A moment's silence and then: "Oh! My dear, estranged brother. I had almost forgotten about you, all hidden away in disgrace at boarding school."
"I see you still have nothing better to do than harass me," Sherlock said crossly. "I am sick of your personal assistant calling me. Tell her I don't need her checking up on me every week. And I know it's her. Telemarketers don't usually sound like they spent three years poncing around at Cambridge."
"Charming and sweet as always, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, sounding amused and unruffled by his brother's usual bile. "Now, enchanting surprise as this is, what is it you want? I'm a busy man, dearest."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Maybe you could explain to me first why you spent the first week of term bombarding me with calls and, frankly, highly tedious texts? Or was that just for your own amusement?"
"Ah," Mycroft said, suddenly becoming uncharacteristically sober. "Well, that is, ah, not a matter for the present. Though I would ever so much like to come to Redverse at your earliest convenience."
"For God's sake, why?" Sherlock demanded. "What is the bloody secret?"
"Like I said," Mycroft said drily, "just say the word and I shall come at whatever is a convenient time for you. We may speak it over then."
"There is no convenient time," Sherlock said irritably. "But if you insist, then Wednesday afternoon would be fine."
"Excellent," Mycroft said, regaining his usual swaggering tone. "Now. What can I do for you?"
"I... I need a favour," Sherlock said, very quickly.
There was silence. "I beg your pardon. Didn't quite catch that?" Mycroft said after a pause.
"You heard me perfectly well," Sherlock growled. "A favour."
"Oh my dear brother, I would be nothing less than delighted to help my younger sibling," Mycroft said, the amusement rich in his voice. "Just say the word! Just utter the syllable!"
"Shut up," Sherlock said sulkily. "I am not proud of this. You better not bring this up ever again or I swear I will show everyone the pictures of you in your chubby stage."
"Very well," Mycroft said, still sounding like he was enjoying himself supremely. "What is it?"
"I need you to... to keep an eye on someone," Sherlock said, lowering his voice.
"I see," Mycroft replied. There was the sound of tapping in the background. He had obviously taken to his computer. "And the name of this unfortunate being would be?"
"Louis Watson," Sherlock said quietly.
Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Sherlock," he said finally. "We're already playing private I on your boyfriend? Don't you think that might be a good reason to-"
"It has nothing to do with John," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "And if I were you, I would keep references to my boyfriend at a minimum."
"Fine, fine," Mycroft said. "Now. Let's see. Louis Watson. Might as well kick things off with a customary Google search."
Sherlock listened closely while Mycroft tapped the name into his computer. "So? See anything?"
"His name is listed as an employee for the Southampton branch of the Walter Harris bank," Mycroft said slowly, evidently reading off the screen in front of him, "he has a rather dull Facebook page with all the usual adornments of paltry familial entertainments captured in over-exposed photos and plastered over the web, and there is a small squib about him in some local paper for his efforts in local conservation... Though I don't think that is the same Louis Watson. He seems to be sporting a rather Dickensian beard."
"No, that's not him," Sherlock said impatiently. "So? Can you do it?"
"Yes, I don't see why not," Mycroft replied. "He doesn't exactly seem to be the Salman Rushdie of the banking world. I don't see why we couldn't keep an eye on him."
"Great," Sherlock said. "Also, one last thing. Would you be able to get his number? His home phone? I'd look in the White Pages, but by the time I got through all the L. Watsons-"
"Yes, that seems doable," Mycroft cut in briskly. "Dare I ask why you are stalking the father of your true love?"
Sherlock shrugged, forgetting that Mycroft couldn't see him. "I may enlighten you on Wednesday if I'm feeling charitable. I am still not even one inch towards forgiving you, so you can forget it if you think this was some brotherly gesture of mutual affection."
"Just so," Mycroft said amusedly. "Well, I shall see you Wednesday. Do try and keep from being arrested for harassment before then, won't you?"
"Yes, yes, whatever," Sherlock said. "See you."
"I don't suppose I'll extract a 'thank you' for my brotherly efforts?" Mycroft said languidly.
"Don't push your luck," Sherlock said flatly, and hung up.
He slipped it back into his pocket, feeling satisfied. He turned the lights out and ventured back out into the sunlight.
He had made a serious decision the night before. It hadn't been an easy one, but he knew he couldn't just sit idly by and watch what was happening. He had to do something. What he had in mind could be considered drastic, but he didn't know what else to do.
He walked back towards the dorm, deep in thought. He could move about the school more or less unmolested these days. No one insulted him when he walked past, in fact hardly anyone even glanced at him. He had to admit it was a nice novelty. But he was not naive enough to think it did not come at a price.
He reached the dorms and, instead of heading to his own, walked up four doors, past John's to where he knew Marty Hester's room to be. He had never been inside of course, but he had been in the dorms long enough to memorize the layout and each room's residents.
He knocked on the door and waited. There were a few curious looks in his direction from passersby, clearly wondering what Sherlock could have to say to Marty Hester. The school body were becoming increasingly aware of Sherlock's unexplainable protection under Jim and Marty, but certainly none could account for it. It must have been a source of ongoing bafflement for them.
The door opened almost immediately.
Jim's mouth immediately jerking into a smile on seeing him. Sherlock had taken a risk on Marty not being inside. He tended to be in the common room for most of, if not all the weekend so he had made a bet that he would be in there today. Unlike Jim who seemed to like his own company. Unless he needed something from someone, then he became very sociable.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "What a surprise. What a delicious, unaccountable surprise. Do come in, won't you?"
He stepped back, the smile not shifting from his face. Sherlock reluctantly walked in and let himself be sealed in by Jim closing the door.
Sherlock couldn't help a curious sweep over the room. This was the room Jim occupied; this was the room he slept in, plotted in, studied in, fucked Marty Hester in.
Marty's side was reasonably well-kept, except for a few items of clothes on the floor and the unmade bed. Jim's side was meticulously clean. Perhaps even cleaner than John's. The bed was stiffly made; there was a straight pile of books on the bedside table. There was a closed laptop on the desk and a stack of papers. His uniform was hanging neatly on the back of his desk chair. Besides that, there was barely anything.
Jim sat down in his desk chair, swinging it around to face Sherlock. He crossed his legs and tilted his head to one side. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Sherlock? And I do mean pleasure."
Sherlock's lips tightened as he saw Jim's glittering brown eyes slide down from his face to his body. "Stop it," he said coldly. "I'm not here to play games."
"Mmm," Jim said absently, his eyes reaching Sherlock's thighs. "That's all we do, Sherlock. We play games. It's why we work so well. It's why you need me to mindfuck you over and over." He finally looked Sherlock in the eyes. "I really thought you'd put more of a fight up than this. I really did. I'm almost disappointed that you're quite so easy."
"Did you put Marty up to dumping John as captain?" Sherlock said in a hard voice, ignoring Jim's teasing prattle.
Jim let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Must you always bring up the pet whenever we're together?" He sat back in his chair with a snort. "Ruins my appetite."
Sherlock hated the way Jim spoke about them. "When we're together." He hated how he made it sound like it was something dirty and suggestive, when Sherlock couldn't stand the sight of him. "Why can't you face me? Why do you have to go crawling to your minions?"
Jim cocked his head at him, the smile returning to his lips. "Never been one to get bloodstains on my hands. If you know what I mean. Like to keep my distance when it comes to dispatching brainless idiots like your boyfriend. As for minions, I don't know what it is. People just seem to... to gravitate towards me. What can I say? I'm a people person."
"You're sick," Sherlock growled, though he knew his threats, his anger had no effect on Jim whatsoever. "I'm telling you, I'm warning you to leave him alone. Do you understand me?"
Jim laughed. A mocking, teasing laugh as though Sherlock had just done something very sweet and droll.
Sherlock took a step towards him. He reached a hand down to grip the collar of Jim's shirt, balling it up in his fist. Jim's eyes flickered shut, he curled up into Sherlock's hand. "Tell me you understand me."
"Oh, Sherlock," Jim said softly, eyes still shut. His breath was hot against Sherlock's skin. Goosebumps were erupting up his arms and down his neck. "I know what you'd like in bed. All that aggression, all that anger. Mmm, yes. I know how frustrated you get, how badly you need to let it all out."
Sherlock let go of him and stepped back. He was beginning to burn all over. He was too slow to hide it. Jim opened his eyes and saw with triumph the furious flush that had overcome Sherlock's features.
"Blushing for me? How sweet," he cooed."
He slowly stood. Sherlock took a faltering step back and found himself almost flush against the door. Jim wasn't smiling now. His features were almost reptilian in their coldness, in the intense hardness in his eyes.
"You stole John's phone," Sherlock said, struggling to keep control of the situation.
"When will you tell him?" Jim said softly, now barely more than a foot from him.
"Tell him what?" Sherlock said breathlessly, his heart starting to thump monstrously in his chest.
Jim smirked darkly. "Tell him that we kissed-"
"We did not kiss," Sherlock said, gritting his teeth.
"That you want me," Jim said, halting a bare few inches from him. He held up a hand and touched Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock jerked in fright and tried to step back, only succeeding in kicking the door with his heels. He slapped Jim's hand away, trying to distinguish each bubbling emotion inside of him. They were beginning to morph into a sickening stew and he couldn't find where one ended and the other began.
He wanted to be disgusted by Jim. He wanted to revile the very ground he walked on. He should have, those cold eyes, that cruel smile, that unfeeling spite towards everyone and everything should have made him sick. It did. It truly did. But then what was this confusing heat that kept mixing with it?
It was unbearable holding Jim's gaze. He wanted desperately to look away, but he wouldn't let himself show weakness by faltering like that. Jim smirked and his eyes flickered down to Sherlock's mouth and up again.
"You'll never be as clever as me, Sherlock. You'll never outwit me. You can concede now. I promise I'll be nice to the blonde toy. I'll let him walk away unscathed. Just..." His voice trembled. "Just tell me... tell me you belong to me. I need to hear it. I need to own that mind, that cold, calculating mind. You're more brilliant than even you realise. You could be so much more if you just let me harness those gifts of yours."
"Fuck off," Sherlock said coldly.
Jim let out a melodic laugh. "I would be disappointed if you gave up without a fight."
He clutched Sherlock's shirt tight in his hand and the next thing Sherlock was conscious of was Jim's mouth hard and rough on his. His hands found Jim's shoulders to shove him away. He hesitated. Jim heatedly tore his mouth open.
Sherlock's eyes widened and he sharply pushed Jim away with more force than he had intended. Jim hurtled back against his desk, hitting it hard and falling forward onto his hands and knees.
He looked up at Sherlock, panting harshly and flushed bright red.
"That was very silly, Sherlock," he said, through wheezing breaths. "John will pay for that."
"I'll kill you," Sherlock spat. "Touch him and I'll kill you!"
Jim got back to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pointedly straightening his shirt. "And what do you think John Watson would say-"
He gave a mock gasp.
"What he would do if I were to tell him about what you've been up to behind his back?" he said in a theatrical tone of concern.
"He'd never believe you," Sherlock said too quickly. It was the wrong thing to say. He felt a inward wince for his own insensibility.
Jim didn't seem to note this aspect of the claim. "No, you're right. People do tend to respect visual evidence more than mere words." He glanced down, biting his lip in a mocking fashion.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Sooner or later you'll screw up. And I'll be there to make sure you get exactly what you deserve."
He turned to leave, but before he could turn the knob Jim gave a low snigger behind him. Sherlock jerked his head back towards him.
"Awful lack of security in these old dorm rooms," Jim said offhandedly, wandering across to his desk and running a pale finger along the edge. "I'm always concerned of thieves myself."
"What are you going on about?" Sherlock snapped.
Jim glanced up at him. "Hm? Oh, yes. I was so concerned in fact that I installed some CCTV of my own."
Sherlock's insides went rapidly cold. He stared at him, words failing him for the first time in a long time. Jim held out a finger, pointing past Sherlock to Marty's side of the room. "There." He jerked his thumb behind him. "And there."
Sherlock blankly stared at him, trying to keep the panic that was beginning to spread over his body at bay.
"Innovative, no?" He smirked widely, his eyes glinting with triumph.
Sherlock opened the door without being aware of moving and escaped out into the corridor. He slammed the door behind him and walked quickly up to his own room, almost walking into every person in his path.
He felt sick. He felt physically ill to his stomach. His loathing towards another person could never have been more potent than what it was at that moment towards Jim Moriarty. But the hatred he felt for himself was far, far worse. The smell of Jim's cologne was thick in his nostrils, and he hadn't ever felt so close to vomiting where he stood.
End of Chapter Twenty-Five