But I wish wish wish that you were always here and I try to try to lose my head
But I wish wish wish that I was dead
Chapter Twenty-Six:
The word knocked the wind out of him even before the football hit his stomach. The ball itself hit him with such force that he was knocked almost clean off his feet. The cold, sodden ground sunk rapidly through the seat of his shorts, and at the same time a heated flush rushed up his neck and spread across his face like a sudden fever.
He didn't want to look up and see the expression on the face of the boy who had flung the insult so incidentally at him. He didn't know if the kick, which had hit his gut with almost painful precision, had been aimed at him, but nothing could have been achieved to better humiliate him in front of his teammates.
They ringed around him in a mud-splattered semi-circle. He looked around their faces, searching for one that contained a shred of sympathy or anger on his behalf. He looked at Billy and met two stony, impenetrable eyes. The fury on his behalf was being very well-contained, or else it no longer existed.
Finally, he hoisted himself back up onto his feet. Ben had jogged over from the goal to see what was happening. He was the only one who looked at John with any amount of sympathy.
The referee's whistle blasted, breaking through his embarrassed fog and bringing his attention sharply back onto the game. His team was awarded a penalty for his fall, though nobody on his team seemed to overly appreciate the pay-out from the disruption.
Marty took it. It was almost a given that he would. He had barely glanced at John when he had fallen. He didn't look at him even to gloat at his embarrassment. He seemed to have achieved what he had set out to do, and now tormenting John was a waste of time, something that others could achieve while he kept his eyes on other, more important goals.
As he kicked it, John couldn't help hoping he would miss. It would bring him down a peg in the eyes of a team who were becoming increasingly awed by their new captain. But, of course, he did not. The ball, as though fitted with a homing device, sailed into the net, past the outstretched fingertips of the goalie. John sighed under his breath.
He watched as Marty was surrounded by the other players, all slapping his back in a tentative, cautious manner. They didn't dare treat him as boisterously as they usually treated goal-scorers. He was treated with an irritating carefulness, as though he may explode like a time bomb at any given moment.
The whistle blast signifying half-time couldn't come too soon. John waited for the rest of the team to wander off the pitch and then slowly followed. He sought Ben out near the drinking tap and immediately made his way to him. Ben looked at him as he approached, giving him little more than a nod and raised eyebrows in recognition.
"Are you alright?" he said quietly, eyes drifting away from John's face to the team's bench some eight yards behind him.
"I'm fine," John replied. He cupped his hands under the tap and brought the cold water over his face and hair, it trickled down his neck and into the collar of his football shirt.
He glanced over his shoulder to where Ben was staring. "Just fine."
"It's bullshit what they did to you," Ben said quietly, looking back at him. John appreciated, not for the first time, the openness and honesty of his last, remaining ally. He was steady, unwavering in his moods and actions. So different to everyone else around him. "Marty's turned into such a prick. Even for him. I don't even know him anymore. Everyone's too shit scared to stand up to him."
John tried to shrug it off. He had been through everything so many times in his mind. He was sick of talking about it. Sick of hearing about what a prick Marty was. He'd heard it from others too, uneasy apologisers who spoke in low voices to him in the common room and at dinner. He gritted his teeth against the familiar rush of resentment.
"It wouldn't be so bad, if it hadn't been for that tool on the pitch," John finally replied. Ben glanced up from filling his water bottle. "I can take being ignored, but he was a real piece of work."
"What did he say?" Ben asked, raising his eyebrows.
John opened his mouth. The word was on his lips. Ben looked at him, waiting. John closed it again, with a shrug. "Nothing. Just stupid shit. You know."
Ben didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. John was thankful for it. He had never said the word aloud in his life, and he didn't want to start today just in the name of repeating the ignorance of someone he didn't even know. He licked his cracked lips, trying to close off the anxious thoughts now edging around the corners of his mind.
"We better get back," Ben said finally, after taking an extended drink from his bottle. The water trickled down his dirty face, leaving clean rivers from the corners of his lips to his chin.
John nodded. They turned and walked back together. He ignored the glances of his other teammates, not wanting to distinguish the regretful from the resentful. They were all the same to him now.
"John, you're sitting out this next half." John stared at Marty. He hadn't even looked at him when he had said the words; his eyes were fixed across the field to where the opposing team was clustered.
"Excuse me, captain," John said, somehow finding the composure to speak. "But why?"
"You're clearly tired," Marty barked, still not looking at him. "Tired players are liabilities."
"He kicked the ball into me," John said, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. "Why am I being punished?"
"This isn't a witch hunt, John," one of the other players said, in an infuriatingly sage tone. John didn't turn to see who had spoken.
But he knew it was exactly what this was. If not a witch hunt, then a fag hunt. He was being hunted down with every increasing effort to humiliate and punish him.
"He was playing fine," Ben said indignantly. John felt a rush of gratitude towards him, not for the first time. "More than fine. Why don't you send off Billy while you're at it, if you're so worried about players being tired?"
He jerked his head to where Billy was slouched on the end of the bench, still struggling to catch his breath, and coated with slick sweat. Marty looked in his direction, but stayed silent.
"Fuck off, Ben," Billy said thickly, wiping a layer of perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Come on," Marty said, not taking any notice of him. "It's time. John, sit down and don't argue with me."
The unsaid "I'm the captain" was implied, and hung in the air like a concealed insult. The other players slunk off the bench and back towards the pitch. John watched them go, feeling extremely isolated by himself on the sideline. He was glad that the spectators were too preoccupied with the increasing probability of their first win in a month to pay much attention to the disgraced ex-captain, sitting alone on the bench.
Nevertheless he felt like he was some sort of sideshow to the main event. He could almost feel the stolen glances in his direction. It must have been fascinating to the onlookers to see this spot of politics in play. John's downfall, Marty's uprising and the apparent magic touch he had brought to the team. They hadn't even finished their first game with Marty at the helm, and the crowds were already double what they had been at the last game John had captained. It was the final humiliation in a long line of humiliations.
He felt immature and guilty for it, but he couldn't help quietly begging from the sidelines that his team would lose. Just one lost game under Marty, just something to prove that Marty Hester was not a god sent to rescue their team from disgrace.
But they won. Naturally, they won. It was their first win in weeks and John hadn't so much as had a hand in it. The score was 2-1, and though it could not have been said to have been the result of fantastic playing on the behalf of his team, it was a win nonetheless and nothing could change that fact for the parents.
John picked up his kitbag from the mud and walked through the ecstatic crowd, with his head down. He wanted more than anything to avoid notice. He didn't want to elevate his status from sideshow to freak show: the failed ex-captain, the fallen hero. Luckily, or ironically, their attentions were firmly on their victorious team, and he barely received even a fleeting glance on his way through. He was jostled almost on all sides.
He watched Ben be enveloped in a hug by his mother, while his balding father patted him enthusiastically on the back, mouth moving at a hundred miles per hour. He walked past without stopping to invite Ben's sympathies again. He reached the other side of the mob with the sense of having delved through a thick, grasping forest.
He stood a few feet away from them, combing his eyes over the heads and bodies of his entwined teammates and their parents. He avoided the cluster of students who had come to watch the drama unfold, no doubt hoping that some sort of brawl between the new and fallen captains would erupt, and not having anything but a long-awaited win to appease themselves with.
He saw Mr. Harvey alongside a small throng of parents. He was talking very animatedly with them, his face ruddy with excitement. John gritted his teeth, looking away towards the school.
He walked back by himself, wanting no part in the celebrations that would no doubt follow. Not that he would welcome at the celebrations anyway.
At the top of the stairs he turned and stared back down to where the floodlights were raining down harsh, white light on the players and parents below. He wondered if they had even noticed he was gone. He shifted his kitbag from one shoulder to the other.
He was too preoccupied with the spectacle below to notice someone come up behind him. It wasn't until they laid their hand on his arm that he became, abruptly, aware of their presence. He gave a convulsive jump, and snapped his head towards them.
"Sherlock," he said, exhaling and putting a hand over his exhilarated heart. "God, you scared me."
Sherlock's pale skin almost glowed in the darkness. He was wearing a navy jumper and jeans, and was carrying a book under his arm. "Sorry," he said quietly.
There was no kiss or even a touch. Sherlock, for all his sagacious talk on the importance of their heightened discretion, had been the most active party in breaking his own rules. His insistence that they stay apart seemed at odds with his frequent dogging of John's steps. His sporadic appearances increasingly tested John's stoicism, and it was difficult to resist the temptation to break down the newly built walls between them. John didn't want to be the one to crumble.
But tonight there was no such temptation. Sherlock kept his distance, and it was clear to John that he was endeavouring to do so.
"I thought I'd just come and see how the game went," he said finally, when John didn't speak. "I saw some of it."
"Oh... yeah," John said, shifting where he was. "Not bad."
"I saw you on the bench," Sherlock said, with his usual bluntness.
"I don't want to talk about it," John replied tartly, brushing past him.
Sherlock followed, closer to him than before. John could smell his shampoo and the slightest tinge of cigarette smoke. "Why don't you leave the team? Surely now is the time to leave. After all they've done, you don't owe them anything."
John gave a short, humourless laugh. "You know that's not an option."
"Why not?" Sherlock said, almost eagerly. "We could both leave. Leave all of this crap behind us."
John studied his face under the overhanging lamp. He knew better than to try and read Sherlock's emotions through his facial features, which could be misleading at the best of times and impenetrable at the worst.
"Leave?" he said blankly. "Leave where? Redverse?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, his features unreadable. John had the feeling he was being totally serious. It would have been a tasteless joke, but in earnest it was even more insulting.
"And go where?" he said. "Live off the land?"
"I'm being serious," Sherlock said, taking a step towards him. A hand moved, almost as though to take John's in his, but he seemed to catch himself, and rapidly lowered it back to his side. "Why couldn't we just go?"
"I'm being serious too," John replied, hardly able to keep the annoyance from his voice. "Where the hell would I go? How could you even suggest something like that?"
Sherlock took a step back, as though John's words had stung. For a long time he didn't speak, he just watched John in silence, eyes hooded by the darkness and his hands balled up beside him. Maybe to ensure he didn't try and touch John again.
"Look," John said reasonably. He felt a pang of guilt for taking out his frustrations on Sherlock. "I know we're doing the right thing. I'm just sick of... everything. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just want to try and get through the rest of this year."
Sherlock nodded, his pale forehead cutting through the gloom like a white knife. He stepped towards John, and the hand that had been dithering next to his hip finally rose and touched John's mouth. His fingertips curled underneath John's chin and his thumb slid slowly over John's lips.
John didn't push him away, or even shrug away his hand. How long had it been now since he had felt Sherlock's hands on him? It felt like months. Sherlock's skin was exactly as he remembered it, the smoothness and coldness. It triggered memories that made the hairs on his arms stand up violently on end.
Sherlock lifted a hand and ghosted it down the underside of John's arm, his fingers touching every sensitive, susceptible inch of his skin. John lifted his head up for the kiss he was certain was going to follow, but Sherlock suddenly seemed to realise how close they were and rapidly broke away from him.
John stared after him, torn between the knowledge that the more contact he sought from Sherlock, the harder their continued separation would be, and the impulse to just do what his body wanted at that moment.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. And he sounded it. John had never heard him sound so fraught, like he might crumble at any moment. It frightened him, that weakness to Sherlock's voice. He had never heard him sound like that.
"It's ok," he said. "I'm sorry too."
"No," Sherlock said hoarsely. His hands were clasped almost anxiously in front of him; his face was hooded by the darkness again. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
John didn't know what to say, so he fiddled with the band of his kitbag, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairs. "I better get inside. The team'll be coming up soon."
Sherlock nodded, still so quiet and breakable in the darkness. John would have given anything to put his arms around him and hold him and ask what was troubling him so deeply. He wished he had the courage to ask, but he knew the more he asked of Sherlock, the harder it would be to continue on the way they had been.
"I'll see you around then," John said, his stomach giving a regretful twinge.
Sherlock nodded again, either unable or unwilling to speak. John left him to go back to the dorms, but he hadn't gone more than three steps when he felt the hand on his arm again. "Wait, John."
John had almost been expecting it. He turned, trying to arrange his features into a convincingly surprised expression. Sherlock's eyes darted over his face; he dropped his arm. "Let's go somewhere next weekend. Let's get away from the school."
"Really?" John said, his pretended surprise morphing into genuine surprise. "Do you think that's such a good idea? Jim could still be watching."
Sherlock gave a small jump at the mention of Jim's name. "We'd be careful," he said quickly, perhaps to obscure it. "I could leave first and meet you outside a coffee shop or something."
John had to admit that his desire to have even an hour alone with Sherlock was sorely outweighing his good sense. "Alright," he said, careful to disguise the extent of his eagerness. "Where could we meet?"
"That coffee shop outside of town," Sherlock replied quietly.
John knew he was talking about the coffee shop they'd gone to the day Sherlock had found his magazine. His sister's magazine, he mentally corrected himself. It almost made him blush to think how naive he had been the last time they'd been there. He felt like he had aged terribly since the former year. He felt weighted down with experiences and concerns that he hadn't had before his relationship with Sherlock.
"Ok," he said finally. "I'll see you next weekend then."
...
Sherlock had scheduled the meeting with his brother in the evening when he knew most of the school would be at dinner. That way he was assured the most privacy possible. He had things to discuss with Mycroft that he, more than anything, wanted to keep unknown to anyone other than themselves.
Mycroft was waiting for him in the administration office. It was almost impossible for anyone outside of the school to get in without passing through there, and making their presence known to the secretary.
She barely glanced at either of the brothers, though her eyes wavered perhaps half a second longer on Mycroft. He was, Sherlock conceded, well-dressed in his navy blue suit and patent leather shoes. But his efforts earned him little recognition from the receptionist, and certainly none from his brother.
"Come on," Sherlock said, grasping his brother's arm before he could say anything in greeting- or about the circumstances they had last parted in. "Let's get this over and done with."
"Good God, Sherlock," Mycroft said, as his brother led him almost forcefully by the arm. "Must you handle me in such a manner?"
"We don't have long," Sherlock replied shortly. "Dinner will be over in ten minutes."
He would have added that he didn't want to spend any more time with Mycroft than what was absolutely necessary, but he had the feeling that Mycroft knew that that was implied. His brother gave a withering, little nod, but wrenched his arm pointedly from Sherlock's grip.
To his credit, he didn't slow Sherlock down with his usual dawdling stride, but that didn't even begin to tug at the strings of the enraged knot that had wound itself around and around Sherlock's stomach in the past months. He couldn't even begin to address the intense antipathy he felt upon seeing his brother; it was buried beneath layers of determined numbness. He couldn't even begin to address what he felt, when he had spent every last moment since last seeing his brother trying to forget what he had done. He had almost succeeded, but even he knew that he couldn't ignore his brother forever.
"Where are we going?" Mycroft said, panting a little as he strode along behind him. "Not that I'm not enjoying the scenic route."
"Outside," Sherlock replied, not slowing his pace. "We can't risk being overheard."
"Naturally. Outside." Mycroft sighed. "I should have known. Not that I'm afraid of a little wind, or rain. Or blistering cold."
Sherlock didn't bother replying. He didn't stop until they were safely outside of the school doors.
"Is this it?" Mycroft said coolly.
Sherlock glanced at him. "This way." He jerked his head towards the stairs.
Mycroft rolled his eyes at him in a long-suffering manner. Nevertheless he followed him, and together they wandered down the stairs to where the playing fields were drying off after yet another morning's drenching. Sherlock kept a good two feet in front of his brother, trying to obscure how uncomfortable the water beginning to pool in his school shoes was.
"Are we far enough from civilization?" Mycroft said irritably, squelching along behind him. "If you plan to cut my throat and shove my body into the nearest bush you might as well get it over and done with. I refuse to take another step." He stopped, piercing the pointed tip of his umbrella into the soft, soggy grass beside him.
Sherlock stopped in spite of himself. The wind was beginning to sting his cheeks, and his shoes and socks were uncomfortably damp. "Fine. So? What have you found?"
Mycroft straightened his coat, dusting off the sleeves with impatient jerks of his hand. "About what? Your little friend's father?"
"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Yes! Don't play games with me."
"Nothing," Mycroft replied, straightening his cuffs in an infuriatingly unaffected manner.
"Nothing?" Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes. "At all?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes again. "Nothing that would interest you. Face it, Sherlock. Mr. Watson isn't the delinquent you'd like him to be. He's a banker. He goes to the same holiday house every year, and he has a very pretty, blonde wife. That's about the extent of Mr. Watson's remarkable life."
Sherlock stared at him. He didn't know what he had expected: a mistress, dodgy dealings in his bank, an illegitimate child. Something. But it seemed the only crime Mr. Watson was guilty of was treating his son like dirt. "Fine," he said impatiently. "But did you look everywhere? There has to be something. You haven't seen him, Mycroft. If you did, you wouldn't tell me there's nothing."
Mycroft dropped his hands down to his sides with a sigh. "From as far as I can see the only thing he's guilty of is having a totally uninspired existence. If he's committed any other offence, it isn't within my scope."
"So widen your scope!" Sherlock said irritably.
"I can't widen my scope without more resources, and unfortunately I can't justify utilizing more resources just to chase after your boyfriend's parents," Mycroft replied placidly. "It just can't be done."
"Fine," Sherlock snapped again. He knew Mycroft was right, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Well, there's something else too. I need money."
Mycroft sighed theatrically, massaging his forehead with his fingertips. "For what? Sherlock, I'm not an ATM, I can't just vomit out money whenever you need it."
"Look, this is important," Sherlock said in a hard voice. "You owe me. After what you did, money is the least you can do."
"For God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, his infinite patience coming to a sudden and unexpected end.
His brow was furrowed. Sherlock stared at him. He hadn't had a good look at him since he'd arrived. He suddenly noticed how tired and pallid his brother looked, when he was usually the very picture of robust health.
"What's the matter?" Sherlock said, forgetting his resentment for a moment.
Mycroft tutted impatiently and turned to scan the field, and the trees bordering it. "Sometimes you are such a child."
"Why? Because I didn't like that you forced yourself on my boyfriend?" Sherlock retorted. "You have always lived by your own warped rules, Mycroft."
"Let's not argue," his brother replied, his countenance smoothing and the irritation disappearing again behind a facade of calm. "We have the rest of our lives to do that."
"I wish you'd just tell me what the hell is going on," Sherlock said.
Mycroft looked at him steadily. He pursed his lips together, rolling the words around in his mouth like he was tasting them. "I've gotten wind that you have a new student in your year."
Sherlock started. "Ji- Moriarty?"
Mycroft looked narrowly at him. "You've met him then."
Sherlock could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. He turned his face away to the trees along the far end of the field, trying to drive the blood out of his face. "Yes, I've met him."
He'd kissed him. Twice. God, if Mycroft ever discovered what he had done. He'd never let him forget it.
Sherlock's stomach lurched. "Briefly. Barely," he said hurriedly, avoiding his brother's eye.
Mycroft touched his arm with a gloved hand. "Whatever your relationship to Jim Moriarty is, you must cease it immediately."
Sherlock looked at him in surprise; he hadn't ever heard his brother speak with such gravity. He wasn't teasing now; he wasn't trying to wind his brother up. He was serious. "Why? What do you know?"
Mycroft gave a half shrug, and looked away from him. He picked a handkerchief out from his pocket and dabbed at his nose. "You have to trust me when I say that Moriarty is not one to be trifled with, Sherlock. You might think it's a game, that there's nothing to lose but your dignity, but that's the trap he sets."
"How do you know so much?" Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft glanced at him, his nose red from where he'd been rubbing at it. "I know I've given you little reason to trust me, but on this matter I am certain that closeness to that boy can do you no good. In fact-"
He dug a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a handsome, black leather wallet. He fished out a business card from it and held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock gingerly took it, staring down at the yellowy paper bearing his brother's name in handsome black font.
"If Jim Moriarty attempts anything, if he tries to worm his way into your confidence, call me. That's my private number. You'll always get a hold of me on it," he said, his eyes grave and stern. "Will you do that?"
Sherlock had a feeling that he had bypassed "confidence" a long time ago. Jim was well and truly under his skin, in his head, in his blood now. It was too late to admit just how reckless he had been.
However, he nodded and didn't say a word. Admitting just how close Jim had already gotten to him would mean having to admit how stupidly, how selfishly he had allowed himself to stray into Jim's hands. He couldn't do that.
"Good," Mycroft said, seeming satisfied. "Now," he turned to face the school, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "How much money do you need? Dare I ask what it's for?"
"I'll tell you as soon as it's done," Sherlock replied, his mind still on Jim. "I need a substantial amount, and you may never see it back. But it's absolutely necessary that I have this money, you understand? It's vital."
Mycroft studied his face for a moment and then turned away with a shrug. "Very well. I know better than to expect straight answers from you. You do so love to shroud yourself in mystery."
"Good," Sherlock said, feeling a weight lift off his chest. He had been counting on Mycroft's acquiescence. There was no question of his being able to afford it, but whether he would be willing had been another matter.
"Very well," Mycroft said. "We'd best return. I'm sure your sudden disappearance will be starting to concern your warden."
"Doubtful," Sherlock said, but he began to walk back with him.
Dinner had ended and the students were beginning to disperse over the school when they arrived back. They attracted more than a few curious looks as they made their way towards the admin. Mycroft seemed to enjoy the glances towards his expensive clothing, and adopted more than a slight swagger as they went along.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sherlock said quietly to him, as they passed a gaggle of wide-eyed thirteen-year-olds.
"I don't know what you mean," Mycroft replied silkily.
They turned the corner, and Mycroft's poise abruptly dissipated. He stopped short where he was. Sherlock came to a clumsy halt beside him.
Like a dark-haired sphinx he stood in their way, between their destination and them. It was as though he had known they would come that way, but it probably had more to do with the fact that their route took them past one of Marty's group's favourite haunts: the drinking taps outside of the admin.
His eyes were already fixed on them. Sherlock's insides were coiling and uncoiling violently inside of him. Mycroft shuddered into a walk beside him, and Sherlock forced himself to follow him.
Marty and his friends hadn't even looked up, and as they passed Mycroft and he barely garnered a glance from any of them. Except one. They walked through the doors into the admin, and both seemed to breathe the same sigh of relief.
It was premature.
"Mycroft, what an unprecedented pleasure."
Sherlock span around before he could stop himself. For Mycroft to know Jim was one thing, but for Jim to know Mycroft was too much of a perfect coincidence.
Jim's eyes were boring into Mycroft; he hadn't even looked at Sherlock. Mycroft stared back at him, calm and unruffled, but with the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks. He jerked his head at him in a very brief bow. "Moriarty. I heard you had slithered your way into Redverse."
"I thought you might have." Jim smiled very widely. "I know you keep little Sherlock's interests very much at heart."
Mycroft's lips thinned. Sherlock had never seen his brother look so livid, or like he would more like to wrap his fingers around someone's throat. "I will be watching this school very closely. You can count on that."
Moriarty raised his eyebrows in an almost challenging motion; a smirk was playing idly on his mouth. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Finally, he looked at Sherlock. He swept him up and down with one caressing look, as though he was touching every inch of Sherlock's body with that one, incidental glance. He had looked at Mycroft like he was staring down at opponent, but he looked at Sherlock as though he were exchanging a heated glance with a lover. It turned Sherlock's stomach.
Sherlock had barely caught his breath before Jim had turned on his heel and disappeared back beyond the doors. For anyone looking on from the outside it wouldn't have appeared to be anything but the most inconsequential of meetings between two people who barely knew each other, but Sherlock knew his brother- and Jim too well to be fooled.
"What the hell was that?" he hissed, taking his brother's arm and dragging him close to him.
Mycroft shook his head briefly, his lips still clamped shut. He walked to the doors of the school without a word, though everything about his person had suddenly taken on the appearance of someone recently freed from concrete.
"Are you going to tell me what just happened?" Sherlock said angrily, when they were safely outside the doors.
"It's nothing," Mycroft replied, seeming to regain some of his composure. "It's not important for the moment. Just... just promise you'll do as I said. Stay away from him."
Before Sherlock could speak, Mycroft had pulled himself out of his grip and was descending the stairs to the car park.
...
The rumour had appeared almost overnight and spread like a virus over the school. John couldn't turn a corridor corner, or enter a classroom without hearing it from at least three different mouths. It was impossible to tell from whence it came, because it was repeated so many times a day, from so many corners of the school that the lines between teller and listener were blurred.
He sat down at breakfast on Saturday to a bubbling undercurrent of intrigue. He ate in silence, letting the unsympathetic voices wash over him. He noticed that the only person not engaging in the barbed chatter was Ben opposite him.
He caught John's eye and smiled, very wanly. John didn't smile back; he ate what he could of his cereal and tried to filter out the voices of his classmates around him.
They were allowed out of the school grounds after ten o' clock, so he paced the length of the gates until the groundskeeper finally came to let him out. He gave John a withering, long-suffering look, as though he was the sole cause of all of his many concerns and took what to John felt like an unnecessarily long time with the keys, which hung on a frayed piece of orange string from his belt.
Once John was free he set off at a brisk pace towards the town. His layers of clothes were becoming ever lighter as winter seemed to draw closer to its end. The air was definitely becoming dryer and the mornings weren't quite so barbarous when he had to rise early for football practice.
He knew he was early. He hadn't meant to leave for at least another thirty minutes, but his restlessness and the impossibility of escaping the rumour while in the confines of the school had prompted him to deviate from that plan.
He wandered down the main street, sparsely populated at this time of the morning. Besides the pubs and the one club, it boasted only a few helpful shops: one selling hardware, a hairdresser's, a grocer's, a butcher's, and a general store. All seemed vaguely yellowing and as though they had been left over from a bygone era, an era when they had been clean and useful, and not in bad need of repair and repainting.
He stopped by the general store and bought a packet of gum, and then wandered out of the mournful scope of the main street, and towards the outer reaches of town.
It was here that he had walked with Sherlock all those months ago. It felt like someone else's life, or the memory of a film seen many years ago.
He lingered outside of the cafe. Brief flickers of his past memories there were stirred. Their banter over Sherlock's liking for black coffee, and John's preference for a sugary concoction of froth and milk. It almost made him smile, but he banished it to the recesses of his mind. Things were different now.
He leant against a crumbling brick wall shouldering a garden next to the cafe, and passed his wallet from hand to hand. He still hadn't recovered his phone. He had come close several times to telling Sherlock about it, but he had stopped himself short each time. It seemed too childish, too inept to call on Sherlock yet again to get him out of a mess.
He cast his memory back a couple of weeks prior, to when Sherlock had stood between him and his father. It still made him fiercely, foolishly proud. His father may have been shorter than Sherlock by a good foot or so, but he was solidly built and had always been proud of retelling his part in various pub scuffles in his youth. He could probably have knocked Sherlock out cold.
It had been a truly brave act, but if John suggested so to Sherlock he knew he would have scoffed or shrugged it off. And not even in a show of false modesty. It was just the way he was. So arrogant when it came to some things, so unintentionally humble when it came to others.
He turned his head back up the street and spotted a tall, lithe figure just turning the corner from the high street. It was undoubtedly Sherlock. He had the same measured strides, hands in his pockets, head directed firmly forward and never turning idly to the left or right like most people's did. John knew that his eyes however would be darting everywhere, taking in everything and everyone. He seemed ever hungry for details to file away in his memory. He seemed to have John in his sights, even from a hundred or so feet away and made an almost straight beeline towards him.
When he came close enough, John could see he was wearing his familiar dark jeans and a black coat buttoned up to his throat. It made his skin look even paler than usual and his hair even darker in comparison.
John straightened up from the wall and rubbed at the backs of his legs where the bricks had left sore marks in his skin. Sherlock came to a halt in front of him.
John was suddenly struck by the floundering thought of whether or not he should kiss him hello. It was difficult to guess whether Sherlock expected it or not; his face was blank. He hadn't moved to touch John, or even spoken.
John took a faltering step forward and then stopped, his hands balled up next to him. "Hi," he said awkwardly. He didn't know what he had expected, but Sherlock's blank expression was not it.
Finally, as though suddenly animated by John's clumsy, monosyllabic greeting he gave a small jerk, and a not altogether convincing smile sprang onto his lips. "Hi," he said, not making any move to touch him. His hands were buried in the pockets of his coat. "Let's sit down."
John followed him to a table outside the cafe, under the same red and white umbrellas they'd sat under the last time. John glanced up at the one above them and noticed that it was dirtier than he remembered it being. He looked back at Sherlock. "So-"
He was interrupted by a waitress in a vibrant pink shade of lipstick that stood out like a beacon against her black skirt and apron. "Morning. What can I get you?" She had a sparkly blue pen pressed against a notepad.
"Black coffee," Sherlock replied, not looking at her.
"I'll just have a lemonade," he said, breaking Sherlock's gaze to glance with a brief smile at the waitress. He didn't want to revisit the past by ordering a cappuccino. It seemed quaint and foolish. That had been then and this was now. They weren't about to embark on cheerful banter about their beverage choice today.
The waitress retreated inside, and John almost regretted her departure. Now he was alone with Sherlock and the silence between them was almost stifling. Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off of him or barely blinked since they'd sat down.
John tried to watch him back, but it was like staring into the sun. He ended up fixing his eyes on random objects about the place: a pot plant behind Sherlock, the barriers next to them advertising Ricco brand coffee, a car across the road with an ugly dent on its right side. He could feel his face beginning to flush, and almost resented Sherlock for bringing him here and then proceeding to do nothing but stare at him.
He considered blundering into some small talk, but then decided rather abruptly against it. "Did you hear what's going around school?"
Sherlock didn't react immediately. He held his gaze and then finally gave a very small nod in affirmation. "It got out rather fast."
"I don't even understand how something like that can happen," John replied, unable to keep all of the anger out of his tone. He clutched the salt shaker in his hand, grinding a few stray grains of salt with the base. "It's so fucking messed up. They get away with talking about people like that. The shit they were saying-"
"It has nothing to do with you," Sherlock broke in, almost hurriedly.
"I didn't say it had anything to do with me," John retorted, the anger flaring up more quickly than he had intended. "God. Am I really that self-centred?"
"You're taking it too personally," Sherlock said, only serving to rile him up further.
"How can you hear people talk like that about someone?" he said angrily. "He was a decent person. He was the only teacher in the school who ever gave a damn about his students, and wanted to help them."
"You thought he gave a damn about us?" Sherlock repeated dubiously.
John bristled. "If you knew what he-"
He stopped himself. Sherlock watched him, his eyes sharp. He almost seemed to know what John had been about to say.
"What?" he said softly.
It was less a question than a demand. John felt the weight in the word and that he couldn't refuse it. He didn't want to. Not out of any sense of guilt, but out of a selfish desire to make Sherlock see just what the man he was dismissing was capable of.
"He was the one that put us together on the assignment." That particular sentence came more easily to him than many others that day. "Who made sure we were together," he classified.
"So I was your charity case?" Sherlock said, after a long, frosty pause.
John narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't you even dare pretend to be offended." He sat back in his seat with a frustrated huff. "God. I don't even know why I bothered coming."
"No need to get testy," Sherlock retorted. "It was a simple question."
"It's never just a simple question with you," John replied tartly. "It's a thousand questions in the guise of a simple question! What you really mean is: was I just faking it all along?" The words were suddenly coming almost too quickly, and he couldn't or wouldn't stop himself. "Christmas? Was that a lie? Was my telling you I love you a lie too? Was giving you my virginity just a ploy to keep the lie rolling along-"
He felt a jostle next to his arm, and glanced up slightly dazedly to where the waitress was clutching his lemonade in an open bottle sweating condensation. "Sorry," she said, seeming slightly embarrassed. John let her place it down in front of him and hurry away.
He wasn't embarrassed. He felt liberated from embarrassment. He felt like he was finally giving Sherlock a true piece of his mind. He had wanted to for weeks. To tell him how angry he was at him for keeping them apart, how he resented his promising him everything and then giving him nothing because suddenly the dangers were too pressing to ignore.
Sherlock's lips twitched, and John inwardly dared him to laugh. "I thought you agreed that a little time apart now was a good idea."
"I did," John agreed quickly. He knew he was being difficult and contrary, but it was difficult to verbalize his frustrations when he didn't even truly know what was causing him to feel so helpless and angry.
The waitress returned with the coffee and placed it down in front of Sherlock without looking up. Sherlock didn't touch it.
They sat in silence for a few moments. John let his irritation wash over him. He knew it was fuelled by what he had heard that morning. He didn't need the constant reminders of how stupid and ignorant his friends were, he didn't want to be reminded of how unwelcome he was in their circle.
Five minutes later, both of them had had enough of the awkward silence. Sherlock offered to pay for both drinks, something John wasn't about to fight him on, so he waited outside, beyond the dirty umbrellas and the remains of their only partly touched beverages on the table.
They began walking back towards the town, before either of them had even suggested where they should go. Sherlock seemed to be walking a little faster than usual, always a good sign that he was turning something over and over in his mind. He continued on at a doggedly rapid pace, until finally, when the chemist on the outer outskirts of the main street came into view, John grabbed a hold of his sleeve.
"Slow down, for fuck's sake!"
He all but shouted it at him. They stood in the middle of the empty street staring at each other, the sleeve of Sherlock's coat jammed in John's hand. Sherlock looked blank, and it was difficult to tell what, if any, effect John's words had had on him.
He loosened his grip on Sherlock's coat sleeve. His nails had become embedded in the fibres and it made a dull, thick cottony sound as he tore it away. Before he could pull himself completely away, Sherlock had grabbed tightly a hold of his wrist and yanked him roughly towards him.
John melted into the kiss even when he knew he should have been pulling away, should have been pushing Sherlock off of him. They were kissing in a public street, in broad daylight. The thought should have meant more to him.
It was one of the most heated kisses, however ungainly, they had shared for longer than John could remember. One of Sherlock's hands was pressed into the small of his back, holding him firmly, and not altogether gently, against him, the other was still hooked around his wrist, refusing to let go even when John clumsily lifted his arm to cup Sherlock's face with both his hands. Sherlock's skin was ice cold, and smooth as wind-levelled rock.
Sherlock's tongue was inside of his mouth before he could gather his thoughts into a coherent order. Sherlock's tongue was warm and familiar against his, but it was that wet, velvety sensation that suddenly awoke him to what they were doing.
He yanked his head away from Sherlock's, though he didn't release Sherlock's face from his grip. His hands seemed to have decided they liked their present position and weren't going to unhook themselves from Sherlock's chin and cheek. Sherlock blinked at him, his eyes hazy and aroused, his hair ruffled from their brief entanglement.
"Are you mental?" he breathed, even as his cock started to stiffen between his legs. His accusing words were at odds to everything his body was doing. "We could be seen."
"I want to undress you and fuck you slow and deep, in front of every one of these houses," Sherlock said, in a voice so frank it was almost comical.
John was almost exasperated by how typical it was for two adolescents to suddenly reconnect through their mutual lust and need for sexual release. But he knew that was selling them both short. Sherlock would not have begun to undress just anyone in the middle of a suburban street.
"Jesus Christ, you're serious," John gasped. Sherlock's fingers were tugging at the buttons on his cardigan. His jeans were uncomfortably tight, and Sherlock's hands touching and prying at his clothes was not helping.
"Not here," he almost pleaded, as though he was asking Sherlock not to argue with him or scratch himself in public.
Sherlock abruptly stopped. His vision was startlingly clear as he stared at him. "Ok. A motel."
"With what?" John said loudly after him, as he was taken firmly by the wrist and half led and half dragged towards the high street.
Sherlock just glanced at him over his shoulder. "Fine. Then we're left with the street."
He turned sharply and was suddenly leading John into a damp, dirty alleyway. The red bricks on the ground were crumbling and chipped away; moss was growing between them. At the end he could see two garages, shut and with cobwebs hanging liberally over them in a manner that suggested they had not been used for a very long time. On one side of them was a block of flats, the other was a small, untidy terrace house with a lattice fence.
They hurried down a few feet, until they were out of view to anyone in the houses on either side of the street or anyone in the high street, however not to anyone who happened to walk past.
John tore at Sherlock's clothes with renewed fervour, suddenly indifferent to their recklessness, to the fact they were about to make love in a filthy, only partly obscured alleyway, with no protection and no certainty whether the abrupt intimacy, which might be the last for some time, was the best idea for either of them.
Sherlock was panting, his breath hot and muggy against John's neck. He had already undone three of John's buttons, the rest came quickly after. John yanked Sherlock's coat open and then fumbled for his belt and the zipper on his jeans.
"Fucking tight jeans," he muttered, only partly joking as he struggled to pull them down Sherlock's slender thighs.
Sherlock had more luck with John's jeans and yanked them down with one clean pull. Before John had succeeded in getting Sherlock's further than a quarter of the way down his thighs, he was pushing him into the brick wall behind him.
With one hand he cupped John's face the way John had done his on the street. He pressed his other hand against the material of John's underwear, pulled taut by the straining of his rapidly hardening sex. John gasped and rolled into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock's face was close to his and burning with a fierce red flush. His eyes were burning too, bright and intensely lustful.
With surprising strength, Sherlock shoved him up onto his hips. His back was pressing uncomfortably into the brick wall, but he knew he wouldn't fall. The air was unpleasantly cold against his bare back and arse. "Hurry," he hissed, as Sherlock fumbled one-handedly with his own underwear.
A moment later he was pushing against John's entrance. John was pressed like a bit of meat between two bits of bread, his legs uncomfortably vertical against Sherlock's body and one of his hands struggling aimlessly for something to grip onto on the wall behind him.
The discomfort and cold was suddenly dissipated when Sherlock pushed inside of him. His hole was unprepared and stinging from the morning air, and for a few moments he could think of nothing but the discomfort of being fucked like this, with his legs in the air like some sort of tumbler.
"Fuck," he swore viscously. "Fuck!"
"I'm sorry," Sherlock grunted into his ear.
"It's ok," John managed to gasp back, his ribs feeling constricted in this position.
Sherlock made a strange sound. John felt the warm air released with it rush against his collarbone. John realised dimly, amongst the confusion of intimacy and the discomfort of having his hole stretched every time Sherlock's length entered him, that it almost sounded like a sob.
That thought was quickly eclipsed as the first shot of real pleasure he had felt rippled through his stomach to the tip of his cock pressed against Sherlock's stomach. A strangled, pressured groan rose from the base of his throat and he gripped harder at Sherlock's shoulders.
He could feel Sherlock's fragmented breathing against him. He could feel it vibrating through his frame. He circled Sherlock's shoulders with his arms and held him tightly against him, though it caused him some discomfort against the damp, uneven wall.
Their first lovemaking for weeks was a brief flurry of grunting, arms grasping helplessly at each other, bodies violently meeting again and again, eyes seeking each other out almost vehemently across the soupy air of the dirty, little alleyway.
John forgot about the closeness of the brick wall behind him and threw his head back when his climax came, suddenly and almost without his realising its approach. The ache of the back of his head was swallowed whole, as he unthinkingly cried out Sherlock's name. He spent himself all over Sherlock's stomach and shirt.
Seconds later, Sherlock followed like he was tumbling off a cliff after him. He held John painfully hard against him and thrust into him. He pressed his face into John's neck, and gasped like he hadn't had a mouthful of air for the entire time they'd been pressed against each other, entwined like a many-limbed vine against the unwashed brick wall.
Minutes later, Sherlock slowly and carefully let John slide to his feet. He could barely stand and squatted down where he was, under the pretence of yanking up his underwear, but in actuality to catch his breath and gather the strength in his knees to straighten up.
When he did, Sherlock was slowly dressing himself. He seemed at ease again. His breathing was slow and regular. He zipped himself back into his stupidly tight jeans, he tucked his shirt back into the band and buttoned his coat.
John followed suit, though with less precision. He clumsily zipped and buttoned himself up, finding it hard not to stare at Sherlock when he was flushed with a post-orgasm glow. His hair was in an even greater state now, tangled and tumbling into his forehead and eyes.
They walked to the end of the alleyway, listening carefully. John was listening for the sounds of voices of people who may have overheard them. He was sure he could recognise them by their sharp, scandalised resonance, but the air was silent. The only sounds were the cars on the nearby main road and a blackbird cawing lazily overheard.
Just as they were turning the corner, Sherlock suddenly stopped and turned to him.
"John, stop."
John had already stopped. Sherlock's hand was again on his arm; his face was strained.
"I have to tell you something."
John's stomach swooped in alarm. "Yeah?"
Sherlock hesitated, seeming almost frozen in the act of speaking. His lips were slightly parted; his brow was furrowed. "I... I don't think you should give Hurst too much thought. I know it's hard, but he's gone and their stupidity can't hurt him now."
John was almost certain that that hadn't been what Sherlock had wanted to say, but he humoured him. His irritation had been melted away during their messy tryst in the alleyway, and he was too exhausted to argue. "Ok," he said gently. "I'll forget it."
They walked slowly back to the school, taking as long as possible in the brightening morning sunshine. Keeping close together and with their coat sleeves as cover they could thread their fingers through each other's and pass by people completely unnoticed.
At the gates of the school, they risked a very brief and chaste kiss before walking on ahead. John watched him go, and waited for him to disappear so he could follow at a safe distance behind.
...
Sherlock felt sick as he walked through the doors of the administration office. The feeling had been hanging over his stomach all day. Since his meeting with John.
His insides contracted at the memory of that morning. John had seemed worse. The pressure was beginning to form cracks in the facade he had kept so effectively in place for months, perhaps years. Sherlock wanted to believe that he had refrained from telling John about Jim to save him from a further blow, and to a degree it was true. John was already buckling under the weight of their prolonged separation. But he would have been lying to himself if he denied that fear and cowardice had been most prominent in his decision to stay silent.
As a result, the guilt was left to fester in the recesses of Sherlock's mind. The unfaltering sense of self-loathing. And the fear.
He reached the receptionist's desk and found it empty. The little silver bell was in its usual place, but he didn't ring it. He didn't know whether it would be necessary to disturb the receptionist. He was hoping he'd be able to come and go without drawing too much attention to himself.
Behind him he heard the admin's twin doors of handsome, polished wood open with a soft screech across the floorboards. He slowly turned, uncertain of what he'd see.
He was almost surprised at the sight of Mr. Watson, in a pale grey suit and green tie. He had combed his yellow hair to one side and was wearing a pair of black sunglasses, despite the rain that had been falling all afternoon. It was hard to tell which direction he was looking at, and Sherlock lifted a hand to wave briefly at him in case his lone stance by the receptionist's desk wasn't already quite apparent.
Mr. Watson looked at him, or Sherlock assumed so by the tilt of his sunglasses. He took a few steps towards him and then stopped, removing them and folding them into his pocket. He eyes were pink and sunken underneath.
"Sherlock," he said in a neutral tone. He glanced around him, as though in search of someone concealed behind him.
"Mr. Watson," Sherlock said, nodding his head in greeting. "My brother was called away on business. But I'd be glad to speak to you."
Mr. Watson raised a pale eyebrow at him, clearly displeased at the change of plans. He had been expecting to speak to Mycroft Holmes, one of the most proficient young businessmen in the country, but Sherlock had had to use something to lure the banker away from his home in Southampton. Sherlock was almost disgusted at himself for using his brother as leverage, but it had been necessary. Mr. Watson would never have come if he had simply asked him.
"We can use one of the conference rooms," he said, before John's father could argue.
He walked towards the nearest door, and was relieved to hear Mr. Watson's footsteps behind him.
The room was large and well-lit by two long, rectangular windows. The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper; the carpet was cream and very clean. In the centre was a long oval table with three chairs either side, and one at either end. There was an empty plastic jug in the centre turned upside down, with three glasses around it.
Sherlock didn't take a seat, and neither did Mr. Watson. He neglected to close the door on his way in, so Sherlock closed it and stood with his back to it.
"What is this about?" Mr. Watson said, his brow furrowing as he clearly began to realise that he may have made the long journey from Southampton to Redverse under false pretences.
"John," Sherlock replied simply.
Mr. Watson's eyes immediately narrowed. Even in their current, tired state they were so like John's. Oval-shaped, cradled by pale eyelashes, and almost helplessly expressive of what lay beneath. "You lied to me."
He moved to jostle Sherlock out of the way of the door, but Sherlock didn't move. "If you care at all about your son, you'll stay."
"How dare you," Mr. Watson said. He had stopped struggling to get past him and was standing less than three inches away, eyes narrowed into venomous slits. "You've known my son for mere months, and you deem yourself worthy of appraising my love for him? How dare you."
Sherlock's heart had begun to pound in his chest. The desire to just outpour everything he had thought or felt for the past few weeks towards John's father was almost overwhelming. "How can you say that when you know how much he suffers just to please you?" he snapped, before he could stop himself.
Mr. Watson furiously opened his mouth and then slowly closed it again, moving back a step and lifting his head to look almost imperiously at him. It was an impressive attempt, given his height. "I'm not going to talk to you about this. Move. I'm leaving."
Sherlock moved silently to one side and slid a hand into his pocket. "I'm willing to pay."
Mr. Watson stopped, one hand clasping the doorknob and his eyes fixed irritably on Sherlock. "For what?"
"For you to leave John alone," Sherlock replied quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the space above his heart moving violently against his shirt. "I have 3000 pounds. Would that be enough?"
Mr. Watson's eyes widened. For a moment he looked too stunned to react. His flaxen eyebrows had almost disappeared into his hairline. Sherlock slid a hand into his pocket where the bundles of cash were still secured by the red elastic bands Mycroft had attached to them.
"He could live with me. My parents wouldn't mind. I could make sure that he got everything he needed. You needn't think of a thing."
He failed to read the warning signs, and it wasn't until Mr. Watson's features rapidly changed that he realised what was about to happen.
The punch hit him almost squarely in his left eye. The sound of it hitting his skin was a dull slap like a sack of wet cement hitting concrete. The pain seemed to come belatedly after, as though his body had forgotten it must accompany a sharp, strong blow to the flesh.
Sherlock staggered a few steps back, a hand automatically clutching at where the blow had landed. Mr. Watson also staggered backwards, almost into the door. He was panting and his face was fiercely red. He didn't seem angry so much as out of breath.
"I'm sorry," he panted, pushing a hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry."
He turned away, the hand still against his forehead, and his shoulders heaving. Sherlock stayed where he was. The shock was pumping through his veins thickly. He should have assumed that this was what would happen. He'd seen him hit his own son, but the thought had seemed too incredulous to him.
Mr. Watson was staring past him; the colour had suddenly drained from his face and he was extremely white. The fist he'd hit him with was curled into his other hand.
"Mr. Watson," Sherlock said, without knowing completely what he was going to say. "Mr. Watson, I-"
He looked at him, his eyes blank and almost uncomprehending. "I have to go."
He said it as though they had met on the politest, most casual of terms. Sherlock didn't try and stop him. He had known it would be difficult to convince Mr. Watson to cast off his only son, but he had expected that the introduction of money would warm him to the idea.
The violent refusal had left him confused and uncertain. He didn't know whether to expect a call from Mr. Watson days later, and that this initial fury was merely the conceding of his failure as a father.
When he left the conference room, Mr. Watson had disappeared. The desk was still empty and the doors were closed on both sides of the hall. No one had overheard their conversation; no one knew of what Sherlock had intended except Mycroft. The money, of course, would have to go back to him. As soon as it was clear what Mr. Watson's intentions were.
He was lost in these thoughts when he became abruptly aware of his phone ringing doggedly in the pocket of his school trousers. He quickly yanked it out to silence it. He immediately thought it to be Mycroft, since no one else, now that John's phone had disappeared, was likely to contact him.
He stopped short at seeing the words "Private Number" on the screen. It could be Mycroft calling from a phone away from their Kensington home, but it seemed unlikely. In his mind he had almost no doubt that it had something to do with Jim Moriarty.
He had a dithering moment of indecision. Since their last encounter, over a week before, Sherlock had been avoiding the other boy with all of his might. Though it seemed his efforts weren't completely necessary. Jim, seemingly feeling he had delivered a lasting blow to Sherlock, was moving through the school with malignant calm.
His pleasure and delight were obvious and when his eyes settled on Sherlock it was clear what he was thinking of. Sherlock's blunder. His idiotic hesitation. He could never forget it. That hesitation had given Jim all the ammunition he had needed. If he had just pushed Jim away the moment he had realised his intent, he wouldn't have unconsciously given up all of the evidence of his apparent infidelity in one, clumsy moment of weakness.
But no measure of reasoning could deliver him from the pure and simple truth: he had wanted Jim Moriarty. He had. He had wanted to kiss him, and he had. Whatever had driven his attraction to him, whatever sick, confused fascination had been brewing inside of him had risen to its climax when Jim had kissed him. Not an incidental brush of his lips against Sherlock's, but a deep, forceful kiss.
He would be lying if he denied how that feverish, almost violent kiss had affected him. But he would also be lying if he claimed that his feelings towards Jim were the same as they had been weeks before. He now knew that he had always had the ability and the power to walk away from Jim's game. He could have denied him the satisfaction of engaging him in his ridiculous roulette, but he had childishly deemed himself too clever to be outwitted. But he had been, and this was the cost of losing. Everything. He could lose everything.
He pressed his thumb firmly down on 'accept' and pressed it to his ear, ready to tell whoever it was to go to hell if they gave him any reason to suspect they were doing Moriarty's dirty work. "Hello?" he said sharply, hoping to frighten whoever it was into hanging up.
There was a moment's silence and then a familiar voice sounded. "Sorry, is this a bad time?"
It took Sherlock a few moments to place where he had heard the voice before. It was strange having the voice disembodied from its speaker. It was even stranger to think of why they would be contacting him of all people.
"No, it's alright," he said quietly, stopping where he was outside the admin, near the row of drinking taps. "How are you?"
There was another brief silence, and then the voice replied, somewhat tersely, "Quite well, thank you. I hope you're in a private place. I have something I want to discuss with you."
End of Chapter Twenty-Six