I will let you down
I will make you hurt
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Sherlock slowly traced a finger around the outline of the bruise. Even that gentle touch stung. It looked viciously purple against his skin, fading from a pale violet at the edges to a shrivelled blue in the centre.
The pain made it virtually impossible to open his eye beyond a split. He knew that there wasn't a hope of it looking anything close to normal by Monday. There was no way his classmates were going to miss this. It was like having a signpost on his forehead, professing just how much of an idiot he had been.
He was no stranger to physical pain; his years at Redverse had ensured that. But it was certainly more painful being hit by a strong, full-grown man than the scrawny adolescents at Redverse. Their fighting attempts seemed feeble by comparison.
Sherlock probably should have anticipated it. John's father had a foul temper on him. But admittedly he had very much expected a much more... positive reaction. He had even expected, well, relief. The man clearly felt John was a burden on him. Sherlock was offering to ease that burden. The fury in Mr. Watson's reaction deviated from what Sherlock had felt he had read so blaringly in his character.
He had spent the next day in full anticipation of Watson's call, expecting very much that it would come before dinner. But no call came, and the silence was forebodingly final.
Three days later he was forced to come to the conclusion that Mr. Watson was not going to call. His plan had been a resounding failure. At best, Mr. Watson would need much longer than expected to make up his mind. At worst, his judgment of Mr. Watson's nature had been sorely flawed, and he had mortally offended the man who had terrific sway over John. He had been, and he was getting sick and tired of repeating the word so frequently, reckless.
But maybe he was being too easy on himself. Maybe the word he was looking for was "stupid".
He dropped his hand back down beside him and scowled at himself in the mirror. The bruise stood out like a beacon among otherwise pallid, smooth features. What would John say? What excuse could he make? He baulked at the thought of yet another lie. The truth was proving to have a habit of coming out sooner or later.
With an impatient tut, he turned his back on his reflection and stalked across to the bed. He furrowed his brow at the pile of twisted, unmade sheets. The duvet was pooled untidily at the base where he had kicked it sometime the night before, sometime amongst the uncomfortable hours of tossing and turning in the darkness.
He had been sleeping increasingly badly of late. And it had only worsened since his (very memorable) meeting with John. Outside that stupid coffee shop. He didn't even know why he had thought it necessary to dredge up the past by dragging them both there. The temptation had simply been too great, he supposed. Perhaps he was more sentimental than he thought.
He wondered if John remembered the first time they'd been there as clearly as he did. Perhaps not. John probably hadn't studied that day detail by detail like Sherlock had in the following days and weeks. For a lovesick teenager, the glory of having John to himself for that one, perfect day had been better than any of his pornographic fantasies.
And though the memory of the cafe had since been supplanted by more recent, more concrete moments between them, he had found himself looking back on that day increasingly often of late.
It couldn't have been healthy to constantly entertain memories like he had been. It wasn't as though he missed pining away like a- Well. A lovesick teenager. But it was hard not to miss the days when John had actually smiled.
He hadn't meant to find himself tangled up with John in that alleyway; it hadn't been part of the plan, but certain parts of his psyche had seemingly decided to awaken at the moment John had touched his arm in the street. At that moment, good sense had been, as such, well and truly fucked.
He plunged a hand into the mound of bed sheets and felt around for his phone. He'd taken to sleeping with it close to his person, and had awoken more than once with a phone-shaped lump underneath him.
He found it buried underneath his pillow and wrenched it out. On lighting up the screen, he found that he had "1 Missed Call". He knew, even without looking, that it would be from his brother. Sherlock had been avoiding the inevitable conversation he knew they must have. He couldn't just borrow 3000 pounds from his brother and expect no questions. And Mycroft probably had a right to know... Though it pained him to admit it.
He dialled the number with one hand, absentmindedly feeling inside his jeans pocket with the other. The slip of card was still there. He didn't know when or if he would ever use it. It seemed to him that Mycroft had only mean it to be used in the most dire of circumstances, and as yet Sherlock didn't believe anything had happened that warranted the use of his brother's jealously guarded private number.
"Hello?" Mycroft sounded terse.
"It's me."
There was a pause; distantly Sherlock heard a low squeak as Mycroft sat back in his leather office chair. "Nice of you to respond to my calls for a change, Sherlock." His tone was distinctly flat.
"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock remarked.
"There is nothing wrong with me," Mycroft replied coolly. "I'm buried up to my eyes in work. What do you want?"
"I'm giving you back the money," Sherlock said, feeling inexplicably defensive about his brother's subdued tone. "If that's what you're so sour about."
"Indeed?" Mycroft said dryly. "I thought it was "absolutely necessary" that you have it."
"I thought so too," Sherlock mumbled. He removed his hand from his pocket and rubbed his hair. It was stiff with sweat and grease. He really should have washed it two days ago, but bathing became increasingly a chore when he had nobody to stay clean for.
"Do you really expect me to come back up there and fetch it again?" Mycroft went on testily. "Or do you just need something else this time? A car? A house? Perhaps your own stud and stables?"
Sherlock prickled. "Shut up. Don't take your bad mood out on me."
"I'm not in a bad mood," Mycroft responded curtly. "But I am, I would say understandably, reluctant to abandon my entire workload to go traipsing up there in the name of one of your whims."
"You can do whatever you want, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "The money can sit on my desk until the next millennium for all I care. Assuming it lasts that long without being stolen."
Mycroft made a dismissive sound between his teeth. "You are such a drama queen, Sherlock."
"And you're a pompous tw-"
"Dare I ask what you intended to do with it?" Mycroft interjected archly.
Sherlock had been waiting for that. "The money?" he said. He was only too confident of what Mycroft's reaction would be when he told him what he had done.
"No, the marijuana plants you have growing in your wardrobe," Mycroft said, with an almost audible roll of his eyes. "Of course the money."
Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't know how to word his next sentence so it sounded least idiotic- and least incriminating. He could do without Mycroft's self-righteous comments.
"Why so silent?" Mycroft quipped. "Knowing you, it was for some harebrained scheme to flee the country."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock retorted, his brother's words cutting a little too close to the truth.
"Then what?" Mycroft said impatiently. "I don't intend to play guessing games with you, Sherlock. Tell me, or let me get back to my work."
Sherlock came abruptly to a decision. "I'll tell you what I intended, if you tell me why and how you know Jim Moriarty," he said, inelegantly sidestepping the question. Nevertheless his curiosity was not feigned.
"We're not bargaining here," Mycroft said sharply, the edge Sherlock had noted the last time they had spoken of Jim returning to his voice. "I've told you everything you need to know about Jim Moriarty."
"All you've done is warn me to stay away from him," Sherlock said. He leant back against the dorm wall, stretching his legs across the bed.
Just vaguely he could hear the low rumble of voices from the next room. He wondered what they were talking about. Probably something like football or a Playboy centrefold. Something bland and uncomplicated. It was the first time Sherlock had almost envied them their ignorance and stupidity.
"I don't have time for this, Sherlock," Mycroft said irritably, though Sherlock thought his irritation was a thin veil for his reluctance to enter any conversation concerning Jim Moriarty.
"I have a right to know," Sherlock retorted. "If he's dangerous, I want to know why."
Mycroft didn't reply. Sherlock heard him exhale softly.
He waited, twisting the cold sheets around and around in his hand. He heard another low squeal, as though Mycroft had sat forward at his desk.
After a few prolonged minutes, Mycroft finally spoke. "He was an intern in the Department of Immigration. We sometimes have dealings with them, illegal aliens and all of that."
Sherlock had never completely understood Mycroft's position in the British Government, but he preferred not to know. He didn't want to unintentionally inflate his brother's ego to a further degree than it already was by accidentally showing any interest in his professional life.
"He... Well." Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock didn't think he had ever heard him sound less controlled than he did now. "He was more competent than the rest of them put together for one."
"The rest of the interns?" Sherlock asked.
"The rest of the department," Mycroft replied tartly, with a short, hollow laugh.
Sherlock could only too vividly imagine Jim swaggering around an office, twisting every arrogant, overconfident businessman around his little finger, flirting and bullying his way to complete control over them. The students of Redverse really hadn't stood a chance.
"He was intelligent," Mycroft continued after a pause. "Far too intelligent for the Department of Immigration," he added offhandedly.
There was silence. Sherlock waited, wondering what obscene crime Jim had committed in the Department of Immigration. He envisioned something bloody, something involving desperate people trying to flee their war-torn countries of origin. Something cruel.
"Well, our paths crossed once or twice," Mycroft went on abruptly. "That was about the long and short of the matter."
Sherlock frowned. "That's it?" he said dubiously.
"What did you expect?" Mycroft said, sounding ruffled.
"So you took intelligent and competent to mean he was also a sadistic maniac?" Sherlock said irritably. He was in reality disappointed that his brother didn't have more to tell about Jim. Then maybe Sherlock could begin to understand him- and his weaknesses.
Mycroft sighed. "In the short time I knew him, he demonstrated himself to be ruthless, thoughtless and to have little compassion, if any, for other people." There was a tinge of bitterness to his tone that Sherlock was surprised to detect in his brother's usually mild, unaffected voice.
"I can assure you that that is putting it mildly," he said drily.
"Why?" Mycroft said, suddenly alert. "What has he done?"
Sherlock considered how much was safe to tell him. He would have to be careful to skirt around the facts that implicated himself. "He's been... ah, causing trouble somewhat," he said lamely.
"What kind of trouble?" Mycroft said, the sharpness remaining.
"Oh, you know," Sherlock said impatiently. "The kind of trouble that spoilt, arrogant private school boys make."
He didn't mention that that trouble included driving the entire school into virtual servitude, and singlehandedly destroying his and John's relationship.
"Very well, if you insist on being vague," Mycroft said witheringly. "I can't stay much longer, Sherlock. I wasn't lying about being up to my very eyeballs in paperwork." He paused. "But I am still very much interested to know just what failed venture you attempted to fritter away my hard-earned money on. That I will spare an extra minute or two to hear."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, kneading his forehead with his knuckles. "It doesn't matter. It didn't work."
"No, I rather think it does matter," Mycroft said, with a hum. "It was my money, after all and I would quite like to know what you tried to do with it."
Sherlock exhaled under his breath. There was really no easy way of saying what he had to say to his brother. "I may have..." he began falteringly, "underestimated Mr. Watson's fortitude when it comes to his son." He hesitated. "I've made an error in judgement," he ended flaccidly.
He knew he was being as vague as a person could be while still broaching the subject, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He didn't want to have to verbalize the scene that had taken place. He hoped very much that Mycroft would take mercy on him and not demand specificity.
There was a silence that turned his stomach. He could almost feel the cogs in his brother's head turning as he slowly realised what Sherlock's words meant.
"Oh, Sherlock," he finally said in a muffled voice. Sherlock realised that he had covered his face with his hand. He felt his cheeks flush. He was about to be chided like a child. "Tell me you didn't try and bribe Mr. Watson."
"I didn't think he'd react the way he did," Sherlock said defensively.
"Your inability to understand normal human feeling, normal human reactions is one of the many reasons I knew that this ill-advised relationship with John Watson would not work," Mycroft snapped. It was far from the reproachful tone Sherlock had expected. Somehow it was much worse.
"Don't start all of that rubbish again," he retorted. He crawled forward on the bed, too agitated to stay still. The phone was pressed hard against his ear, he could feel it cutting into his earlobe, but he was barely aware of the pain.
"This is precisely why you should have left it alone," Mycroft said, a coldness creeping into his voice that Sherlock hadn't heard for a very long time. "All of this time I thought-"
He broke off abruptly.
"Thought what?" Sherlock demanded hotly.
"All of this time I was so convinced that he would hurt you," Mycroft said, the anger beneath his restrained words seething and poisonous. "I didn't think that a common teenage boy would understand how you functioned, how you had suffered in the past-"
"What you did was completely out of order," Sherlock broke in angrily. "What did you think you were going to achieve? Did you think you were on some crusade to prove that John is just as cold-hearted and unfeeling as you are?" He spat the last words with more venom than he had intended, but the fury he felt was overtaking him.
"No, I don't think I've proven anything of the sort," Mycroft replied, after a frosty pause. "John is not the one who I think has proven himself to be cold-hearted or unfeeling."
He hung up, and the line went dead.
Sherlock didn't move. He stared unfocusedly ahead, listening to the persistent beep, beep, beep, beep in his ear. Finally, he lowered it and dropped it beside him on the covers.
...
As seemed the norm these days, John found himself alone in the change rooms that night. The team seemed to evaporate within seconds after training, leaving him to shuffle back up to the school alone, or sometimes with Ben. Oftentimes he convinced Ben to leave him and go with the team. He didn't want to force Ben to ostracise himself just for his sake, though it was admittedly a self-gratifyingly nice feeling to know he had at least one remaining ally on the team.
He got dressed slowly, not having any reason to rush, or any desire to. He spent his nights either confined to his dormitory room, or sitting in uncomfortable silence in the common room, knowing that he was not wanted or welcome. He and Sherlock were seemingly "on" again, if they had ever been "off", but they still couldn't risk meeting in the school. Sherlock seemed adamant about that. He was particularly adamant that they never use the dark room again. John was curious as to why, but he hadn't gotten a straight answer out of Sherlock about that.
He shimmied out of his damp uniform and dropped it onto the muddy tiles. He gave a shiver against the brisk evening air. It was becoming more bearable, as the cold weather eased, but it was still nice to get into the shower. Even if said shower smelt of wet dog and urine.
The hot water on his cold skin sent goosebumps over all of his limbs, and pricked up all the hairs along his spine and neck. He gave an appreciative shudder under the steamy water and let it rush through his dirty hair and over the aching muscles of his body.
He washed himself as well as he could with just hot water (no one in their right mind would touch the dirt-caked bar of soap provided) and reluctantly stepped back out into the cold. He hastily dressed, stuffing his uniform into the bottom of his kitbag. It was nice to be clean and dry. He would choose this over an early dinner any day.
When he walked outside, the sun was starting to bob down below the horizon. The lights in the school were starting to flicker on in random places, in dorm rooms and offices and the various common rooms.
The gravel of the courtyard crunched underfoot, breaking the drowsy twilight silence. It wasn't until John was almost halfway across that he saw a figure lurking by the entrance doors. He slowed his pace, straining his eyes to see who it was. His mind had immediately leapt to two possibilities: one very much welcome, and the other very much not.
He slowed down when he was almost level with them, realisation trickling through him. "Dad?" he said confusedly.
His father was not dressed in his usual suit, but a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt. His hair didn't look like it had been combed that day, and he was wearing the reading glasses he usually protested vociferously against needing.
"John," he said. His tone wasn't warm or welcoming. If John had expected forgiveness, or an apology then he would have been disappointed, but John knew his father too well to expect either. "Hester told me you'd be done here."
He said "Hester" like he was naming a virtual acquaintance and not the boy who had publicly usurped his son. "Yeah," John said, staring at him. "Is there something wrong? Mum-"
"No, everything's fine," his father cut in. "I came to speak to you."
John stared. "You drove all this way just to speak?"
His father shrugged. "I had some things to do in the neighbourhood anyway. Let's sit down." He nodded to a bench along the wall. It was covered in dead leaves and dried bird mess, but John didn't argue.
He perched on the edge of the bench, trying not to stare at his father too much. If so many unexpected things had not already happened to him of late, he would have found his father's unexpected appearance much more surprising, but, things being as they were, he just found it strange. He couldn't think of anything his father could have to say to him; he had already made his feelings about the team very well-known as far as John was concerned.
For a few moments there was silence, his father stared ahead, his hands clasped and his elbows rested on his knees. John waited, not feeling inclined to begin the conversation, given what had happened when they had last met. His jaw gave a twinge.
"So how are things going?" said his father in a hollow voice at length.
"Fine," John replied shortly. "It's all fine." He felt he had every right to tell that very large lie.
"And football?" His father looked at him.
"Marty is a good captain," John said, fighting to keep the hard edge from his voice. "The team's won their last two games under him."
His father nodded and fell silent again. John noted that he was clasping and unclasping his hands almost frenetically.
"Your principal called me to have chat," he said, after a long pause. John watched him and said nothing. "He said that a few weeks ago he spoke to you."
It took John a minute to realise what he meant. Yes, Harvey had spoken to him. Shortly before he had been shafted by Marty. He had threatened him. He had as good as told him that he knew about his relationship with Sherlock. With the help of Jim, Marty and Billy, Harvey had successfully taken John down.
"Yeah, he did."
His father licked his lips, his eyebrows heavily knitted together. John had a feeling he knew where this was going. His heart began to beat a little harder in his chest.
"You..." His father's mouth twisted slightly. "And Sherlock Holmes?"
John remained silent, though his mind was racing faster than he could process the thoughts. It was happening, he thought. It was finally happening. He had always thought that when this moment came he would have been scared shitless, but his overriding feeling was fury. Fury at Harvey for playing such a low down trick. He might have only had unconfirmed suspicions about John and Sherlock, but they were apparently more than enough to use as a weapon.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said, in an oddly blank voice that barely sounded like his own.
"He said he had already warned you about it," his father said, still staring ahead. His mouth was contorting with barely disguised anger. "He told me that he told you weeks ago to stop this... this thing with Holmes, but that you deliberately disobeyed him."
John's immediate reaction was to demand just how Harvey knew so much about his and Sherlock's movements, but he already knew the answer to that. Besides, he didn't think those sorts of details were particularly important at that moment. So instead, he searched haplessly for the words to respond. "I... We... I meant to tell-"
"Finally," his father said, as though he hadn't spoken. "Finally, after waiting weeks for you to sort it out yourself, he had to come to me. He thought that maybe I could get through to you, maybe I could... make you get just how close you are to losing your place on that team."
He still didn't look at him, still didn't give way to that rage that John knew was simmering furiously beneath the surface. He had expected to be hit, he had expected to be screamed at when this moment came, but instead his father was cold as ice, and couldn't even look at him.
"Dad," he said, feeling helpless. "I was going to tell you-"
"I would prefer if you had died." His father's voice was quiet.
John stopped, his insides feeling like they were turning slowly to liquid. He knew this would come. He knew it. He had expected this. It didn't hurt. What you expected, what you knew was inevitable, couldn't hurt you.
Even as he watched his father slowly straighten up from the filthy bench and brush the shriveled foliage off the seat of his jeans he felt like his body was about to crack into pieces.
"Your mother is handling it better than I thought," his father said, staring across the darkening courtyard, his hands in his pockets. "I know it broke her heart."
John felt a flare of anger break through the throbbing ache in his gut. "Don't pretend like you give a damn about mum." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
His father turned sharply towards him, finally looking at him. Familiar blue eyes landed with the weight of lead on his. "Don't you-" The harsh words broke off. John glanced down at his father's clenched fists.
"Why don't you just do it?" he said, looking back up into his father's eyes. "I know you want to."
His father's mouth gave another convulsion, and he turned abruptly away again. "And this Sherlock Holmes... He's some kind of a fucking saint, is he?"
"I'm not talking about Sherlock," John said coldly.
"Then you can listen," his father spat at him over his shoulder.
John felt breathless, like he had just run a mile in the bitter cold. He took a breath of air, trying to feed his brain the oxygen it needed to face this.
"I should have known when I first met that fucking brat that he was a faggot," his father breathed. He took a cigarette from the pack in his jeans pocket and jammed one between his lips.
"Don't be so ignorant," John snapped. He was still sitting; his hands had curled like claws around the edge of the seat underneath him.
His father didn't seem to hear him. "I should have known he was a thieving bastard as well." A stream of bluish smoke ran out from his father's nostrils.
John didn't reply. He watched his father's shoulders heave up and down with the weight of his disgust, his helplessness.
"Maybe if you knew what that little prick tried to do, you'd finally get what he really is." His father was almost talking to himself now, his voice was barely more than a hollow mumble.
John stood up. He hadn't thought he would ever be able to stand again, but somehow he found himself on his feet, three inches behind his father's turned back. The words that followed came into his mouth without effort. He couldn't stop them, and he didn't want to. "Look. I know what your dream was. I know you wanted me to be that boy who got scouted for a professional team, who played for Southampton and had the wife, the kids, the white picket fence. I know that would have made you happy." He stopped, he waited for his father to speak, but he didn't. He exhaled softly. "But at some point in your life you have to start thinking about what makes me happy, dad."
His voice wavered on the last word, but he bit back the temptation to crumble. He wouldn't give anyone that satisfaction. Not even now when his heart felt like it might shatter from the agony of his disappointment.
His father was silent. The cigarette hung limply from his right hand, showering ash onto the gravel.
"Whatever you think you know about Sherlock is wrong," John said in a hard voice.
He turned on his heel and strode back towards the school. The ache in his throat was threatening to give way.
In the hall, he faced the nearest wall, pressing a hand to his mouth with a dry sob. "God. God damn it. God fuck it."
He slowly lowered himself to his knees, resting his forehead against the wall. "Help me. Help me please," he sobbed.
...
Sherlock checked his watch for the tenth time in ten minutes. He let his arm slump back down next to him on the coffee table. His date was late. Very late. He had never known him to be particularly punctual in the past, but he didn't know whether to start being concerned.
He drew a circle with the condensation seeping from the bottom of his untouched glass of lemonade. He stared aimlessly at the opposite wall. It was decorated with black and white photos of various scenes in cafes. The frames were very dusty and bad need of cleaning.
In fact, most of the cramped and slightly humid single roomed cafe needed cleaning. It was little more than a hole-in-the-wall, fashionably unkempt and manned by only a couple of equally unkempt proprietors. Sherlock could see why it had been chosen.
A shrill tinkling behind him announced the arrival of a customer. He didn't turn; he could see the newcomer reflected almost perfectly in the reflection of a monochrome shot of an espresso machine.
"Sherlock."
He looked up. The lank, slightly greasy hair was shorter but otherwise the same, and the ugly, wiry glasses had been replaced with marginally more tasteful thick-framed black ones. "Hi," Sherlock said, awkwardly accepting the handshake offered to him.
Hurst sat down, beckoning the waitress over to him with a crook of his finger. Sherlock waited, and tried not to stare too much. It was difficult not to take note of all the miniscule differences that had happened to his English teacher since his departure.
"So," he said, when he had ordered his soy latte. "Thanks for coming. I know it must have been a surprise to hear from me."
Sherlock shrugged. "It takes a lot to surprise me."
Seconds later, the waitress nudged the latte onto the edge of the table. Hurst jerked his head in thanks. Sherlock thought the milky concoction looked truly revolting.
"I suppose the reason for my departure isn't much of a secret," Hurst said, after taking a brief sip. He seemed to realise that Sherlock wasn't the kind of person who would humour him if he stalled unnecessarily with small talk.
"That depends whether the rumours that have been hurtling around the school like an aggressive pandemic are true or not," Sherlock said curtly.
Hurst gave a cynical snort. "Ah, high schoolers. They never disappoint."
Sherlock eyed him wryly. "Are they true?"
Hurst gave him a remarkably serene nod. "I'm afraid they are. Well, some of them anyway. I know how Chinese whispers can go awry."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said uncomfortably, not sure whether it was the right thing to say to someone in Hurst's condition.
Hurst waved the spoon of his latte dismissively. "Despite the fact that it's this month's hot topic, my illness hasn't been a hot topic in my life for eight years." He gave Sherlock a wry look over the rim of his glass. "Things have a way of... re-emerging."
"How do you..." Sherlock faltered. He was curious. He also felt like an annoying child asking too many questions.
Hurst gave a small smile. "It's ok. Very little offends me, I assure you. I handle it with drugs. That's how everyone handles it." Something in his air suggested that he was not open-minded about those who thought otherwise. "Most people opt for something called azidothymidine. Or AZT, to those in the know. That's what I'm on."
Sherlock nodded. He'd never heard of it.
There was a slightly awkward silence. Sherlock took an obligatory sip of his lukewarm lemonade. Hurst absentmindedly stirred his latte.
"How did they all find out?" Sherlock said finally.
"Well, that brings us to the real reason I asked you here," Hurst replied. He laid down his spoon on the table. Something seemed to tense in his demeanour. "I can only imagine how this is going to sound. I don't usually go for cloak-and-dagger conspiracy theories, but it's taken me a few weeks to decide that telling you this was the right thing to do."
Sherlock nodded. He was sure he knew what was coming.
"Might as well get to the pointy end of it," Hurst said, with a humourless laugh. He stared into his half-empty glass. "Shortly after he arrived, Jim Moriarty started what I can only describe as blackmailing me."
He seemed to think that that would cause Sherlock to exclaim in disbelief. Sherlock simply looked at him. He wondered whether he should tell him that he had already witnessed it first-hand. He almost simultaneously decided against it.
"I suppose you're already quite aware of what his leverage over me was," Hurst said drily.
"Going by the state of things, I'm assuming that whatever he wanted you didn't give him," Sherlock replied.
Hurst cleared his throat almost guiltily. "I don't want to lie to you," he said. "I gave him plenty. But not enough apparently."
"What did he want?" Sherlock asked. He usually hated these sorts of mind games, but he needed to know whether his ex-teacher was worth his trust.
Hurst sighed, and drained the rest of his milky coffee in one long long gulp. "Information," he said, placing the cup back down heavily on the table. "Information about you."
"Like what?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. He thought he might as well keep playing ignorant, now that his moment to admit what he had seen had seemingly passed.
Hurst shook his head bemusedly. "Everything I knew. Which wasn't much I have to say. I should have told him to go to hell, but... Well, I don't really have an excuse." He sighed tiredly. "But I guess I got what I deserved in the end."
Silence fell on them again. Sherlock savoured Hurst's words. He hadn't been told anything he hadn't already known, if anything Hurst had only further confirmed how dangerously ruthless Jim was. But Sherlock had found an unlikely ally.
"He started to ask me things I didn't know," Hurst went on suddenly. "He seemed to have it in his head that you had someone protecting you." He looked at Sherlock and Sherlock thought he detected a very dim glint behind the glasses.
"You know about John and I," he said bluntly.
Hurst smirked. "I might be getting there, but I'm not so old that I miss the completely obvious just yet." He snorted. "And unlike your classmates, I do have the advantage of experience."
There was a pause.
"Thanks," Sherlock said, not looking at him.
"For what?"
"For being a decent human being."
...
John scored a goal that evening, but his congratulations were decidedly lacklustre. He was past caring. The last thing he wanted were the slaps on the back, the nudges in the ribs, the ridiculous compliments. He just wanted to get through the game without throwing up.
Afterwards he walked up to the change rooms alone, leaving his teammates to the mercy of their gushing parents. He didn't scan the crowd for a mop of black hair. He knew there was little chance of him being there, but he would have given anything if he had.
He had already made up his mind that he was going to find him as soon as he was dressed. He needed to see Sherlock. No, fuck that. He needed to kiss him. He needed to sleep with him. He was sick of being careful. He was sick of caring. He just wanted to be with his boyfriend and not care.
The change rooms were empty, but he knew the team would come up for their customary after-game assembly. It was becoming easier to tune it out. Otherwise the stupidity just made him want to break something.
"You know if you dribbled as well as you shovelled food in your mouth, we'd still be on top of the table-"
"Shut the fuck up."
There were peels of hooting laughter outside the change room door. John rolled his eyes to the grimy wall opposite. He heard footsteps behind him.
The chatter stopped almost completely. Someone made a derisive sound through their nose. Billy and two of the others slung their kitbags onto the bench along the far wall, about as far as they could get from John. John didn't bother looking at them.
Soon after, Marty and the rest of the team turned up. Ben was the only one who came to his bench. He'd stopped trying to convince John that his teammate's vitriol was all in his head. It was perfectly clear to anyone what was happening and John didn't need anyone to sugar-coat it for him.
Marty was talking in a loud, obnoxious voice to the general assembly. John hadn't heard him use that voice for a long time. He must have been in a good mood. Or, more specifically, Jim must have been in a good mood.
"I can't wait to get wasted. Fuck, I've had it with school." Marty snorted, heaving his shirt over his head and revealing a well-toned, if grimy torso. "I've had it with the fags we have to see every goddamned week. Can't play for shit."
The others guffawed appreciatively. John narrowed his eyes. He could feel them glancing at him. He knew that the comments were for his ears.
He didn't know what they thought he would do. He had heard them abuse their opponents more times than he could count. He didn't think there was much left they could say that would have made him even pause.
He decided to skip a shower nonetheless. He wanted to get away from his teammates. He wanted to forget they existed. For tonight he just wanted to pretend that he was somewhere else, and he didn't care what they said or what they did.
Or so he thought.
Only too quickly the conversation turned away from football and towards a subject he was more than sick of hearing about.
"Don't put your hand in that, you sick bastard! Those walls haven't been cleaned since the last century!"
John looked up. Billy was leaning against the wall with one hand, yanking his jeans up with the other. He gave his friend a scornful look and didn't move it from the admittedly grim looking stain on the tiles.
"Don't lick your hand whatever you do!"
"Yeah, AIDS for sure," Billy snickered.
"That's not so bad. You can go plough Mr. Hurst-"
There was a burst of intensely raucous laughter. John's stomach clenched. He looked away, stuffing his clothes into his bag.
"Yeah, two gay plague victims together," Marty said, with poisonous relish. "Then you can't pass it on to all those other poor, dirty fags."
John gritted his teeth until he heard something click in his jaw. Ben stirred uncomfortably next to him.
"That's what they should do," snickered a ginger haired boy called Harris. "Round up all the shirt lifters, stick 'em in a compound. Let them spread their diseases all they like-"
John had moved before his brain had had time to process what he was doing. A millisecond later and Harris's freckled face was mere inches from his. Somehow his hand had found its way into a near stranglehold around the collar of his football shirt.
There was a taunting chorus of sounds from around him. Marty was grinning widely. Harris tried to tear himself away from him and partly succeeded. John redoubled his grip.
"Get the fuck off me," he snarled, twisting violently. "I don't swing that way, fucking fag."
Something seemed to snap in John's mind. He pulled his fist back and a moment later pain erupted in his knuckles. The blood was more than he had anticipated. A lot of it flicked onto his shirt and his hand.
Harris stumbled back, clutching at his face and gaping at him, while the blood streamed from both nostrils.
Some of the boys were laughing in delight, screaming at them to fight. Others looked more disturbed. Marty's smile had vanished.
"Shit, mate," Ben said in his ear, his hands gripping the back of his shirt. "Calm down." He pulled him back.
"You cunt!" Harris yelped, trying fruitlessly to stem the blood. He seemed too horrified to retaliate.
When Ben had successfully tugged John out of the change rooms, the molten lava that seemed to be moving thickly through every one of his veins had not ebbed. He was angrier than before. He wanted to kill Harris. He wanted to kill Marty. Fuck, he wanted to kill Ben for watching and doing nothing to stop him being victimized like a fucking animal.
He yanked himself from Ben's grip. He didn't remember ever breathing this hard.
He whirled around, and caught sight of Jim waiting by the steps. He was leaning against the railing; it was too dark to see his facial expression but John knew what was there: contempt, relishing enjoyment of the destruction he was causing, contentment. Ben saw where his eyes were fixed.
"No," he said, sounding vaguely panicked. "Fuck, John. What's wrong with you? Calm the fuck down. You're acting like a psycho!"
John ignored him. He walked towards Jim. Behind him he could hear some of the other boys spilling out of the change rooms to catcall him.
When he was less than three feet away, Jim finally looked at him and smiled. John stepped closer to him, until they were almost nose to nose.
"You stole my goddamned phone."
Jim's smile only grew brighter. "Ah, if it isn't the man of the match!"
John pushed him hard against the railings. "Give me back my fucking phone."
Jim laughed delightedly. "Looks like Sherlock isn't the only one who likes things a little rough! His boy toy is getting all dominant!"
"This is the last time I'll say it," John spat, staring hard into Jim's cold, gleeful eyes. "Give it back."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Jim smirked.
John shoved a hand into Jim's chest, hard enough to make the boy gasp.
"I'm warning you, if you keep messing with me and Sherlock," he breathed, conscious of the audience they had behind them. "I will make you regret it."
To his horror, Jim seemed only further amused by that threat. He gave a short, mirthful laugh straight into John's face. "You know he's meant for me. You know it. We're meant to fight, to hate until the very last breath. There's something between us that you could never understand. We're meant for each other."
"John?"
For a moment John didn't move. He stared at Jim, wanting nothing more than to break every bone in his face one by one.
"John!"
Sherlock's voice was close behind him. He felt the familiar hands grip his shoulders and tug him backwards. He seemed deaf to the comments of his teammates, to what Jim was saying to Sherlock with that knowing, poisonous smile hoisted mechanically on his face.
"Come on." Sherlock's breath tickled his ear.
He let himself be guided away from Jim, into the hallway. Into the school. Into the dorms. He let Sherlock steer him towards his room, and open the door for him and take his bag off his aching shoulder.
He sat numbly down on the bed and stared at his knees. He didn't hear what Sherlock said to him. He stared ahead and didn't speak.
"What's wrong?"
The question seemed to arrive in his ears many long minutes after Sherlock verbalized it. The words didn't seem to mean anything; he had heard them so many damn times before.
"What's wrong?" he said hollowly, staring at Sherlock's pale, exquisite face. There was a deep bruise over his right eye; John couldn't even bring himself to wonder how it had happened. He felt hollow. "What's wrong with me?"
Sherlock was kneeling in front of him; there was a frown of concern on his face. His hands rested gently on John's knees. "Tell me." Those words sounded alien coming from Sherlock. Hard, sharp Sherlock with all his angles and coldness and hardness. This gentleness, this tenderness was confusing. It cut him to the bone.
"Apart from the fact that my father wishes I was dead, everyone in this school hates me, Jim Moriarty wants to put me through a meat grinder and I'm starting to dread waking up in the morning, everything is just peachy," he said. His voice wavered. The careless, jovial tone he had been intending suddenly sounded intensely pathetic.
He looked away. God fuck it, he was not going to do this.
Sherlock didn't speak. Even as he felt the hot, shameful moisture begin to roll down from his eyes like the blood from Harris's broken nose, he tried to convince himself he could stop it. It pooled in his mouth, it made his throat ache. He wanted to scream.
Sherlock's arms were around him. He didn't even remember moving, but Sherlock was holding him. He said nothing, because he knew he didn't have to say anything. He may have known very little about the terrible variety of human emotions, but he did know that.
...
Kissing John while his face was warm and wet with tears was a new and not altogether unpleasant experience. He could feel how the tears made John's eyelashes hard and clumpy, he could feel how his lips contorted with the effort not to sob, he could feel the shuddering movements of John's back and chest as he tried to swallow his misery.
Sherlock felt he might die from the hatred he felt for himself. It was as though for the first time he saw everything clearly. What a hateful hypocrite he had been. What a heartless coward. He didn't deserve John. It almost killed him to admit it. He couldn't picture existence without John, but he would not ignore the truth: he did not deserve John Watson.
He knew what he had to do. It wasn't a decision, it was a fact. If he didn't, he would never be worthy of John.
He didn't want to break the silence. John was wrapped around him like a vine, his legs curling around his, his arms around Sherlock's torso. He wanted to stay like this forever.
"John, I-"
John broke him off with another kiss. This one was deeper. John gently opened his lips with his and took ownership of Sherlock's mouth. His hands moved gently down Sherlock's waist to the buttons on his jeans.
"John," Sherlock croaked, as John lowered his lips to his neck.
Every part of him was screaming at him to stop, but his body was decidedly deaf. John suckled on the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He gave him a soft, hot bite on the curve of his neck.
John slid a hand between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock hadn't realise how his hands were moving over John's body, rubbing his shoulders, sliding up and down the curve of his waist.
John broke away from his neck with a hiss and crawled up so his mouth was almost against Sherlock's ear. "Turn over." It was almost a growl.
Sherlock blearily obeyed, staring at John's tear-stained face in bemusement. He rolled onto his stomach and felt John straddle his lower back. John threaded a hand into his hair and leant down so his lips grazed Sherlock's neck again. In a slick, warm trail he licked down from Sherlock's earlobe to the dell between his shoulder blades.
Sherlock shivered. John remembered his weakness for that place. John nuzzled into his skin. Sherlock gave a choked groan.
Then, without warning, the pressure was gone and John's body was gone. He jerked his head back and felt John's hands touch his hips. "Up."
He raised his hips and John's hands slid under to unbutton his jeans. He yanked them down, pulling Sherlock's underwear with them. His erection was aching for the friction of the bed.
He jerked as John's hand wrapped around his cock. "John- Oh," he said, suddenly more helpless than he had ever been.
He slowly lowered himself, careful not to trap John's hand. He heard John unzip himself wth his free hand.
Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow. He thought fleetingly of lube and condoms, but the next moment he could feel John's erection pressed against his entrance. He moaned into the pillow and spread his legs wider.
John eased himself in slowly, and Sherlock felt his hand loosen on his cock as the pressure overtook him. "Uh! Yes." he said in a thick, coarse voice. "Sherlock!"
"I'm here," Sherlock gasped into the pillow.
He felt intensely full, intensely tight. John seemed to fill every inch of him.
He started to rock. John's hand loosened on his cock, and he felt his body roll down so he was kneeling over him, close and almost prostrate.
John fucked him in slow waves. He filled him like smooth, warm water into sand. Sherlock rubbed himself haplessly against the bed and let his mind go blank with white noise.
"Sherlock." John's voice was low and husky. "Sherlock, I love you."
Sherlock sobbed into the pillow's musty cotton.
"Sherlock! Oh!"
John's movements became abruptly frenetic. Sherlock curled his back with a rough growl.
He orgasmed mere seconds before John. The heated rush of John's seed filled him, and he felt John ride out the remainder of his ecstasy in sharp, messy jolts against him.
John rested his head against Sherlock's back. For a moment neither of them moved. There seemed to be utter silence around them. Not even the dormitories around them could penetrate it.
John rolled off of him with a watery chuckle. Sherlock turned to watch him clumsily re-dress himself, a little shaky on his legs.
"Sorry," he said, looking over his shoulder at him. "Emotional distress always makes me horny."
Sherlock got up and pulled his jeans back up, without bothering to clean away John's ejaculate. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching his boyfriend flatten his hair in the mirror on the door.
"I couldn't possibly have made a bigger fuckwit out of myself if I had tried," John said, with an wry laugh. "I seem to be the expert at making matters worse."
He turned to look at Sherlock.
"What's the matter? Are you ok?"
"Yes," Sherlock croaked.
"Are you sure?" John said, frowning. "You look awful."
Sherlock licked his lips. "I have to tell you something."
John gave an unconvincing laugh. "That sounds ominous-"
"John, please," Sherlock said abruptly. "Listen."
John stared at him blankly, and finally gave a small nod.
"I..." Sherlock took one last look at his boyfriend's face, unsuspecting and trusting. "I kissed him. I kissed Jim Moriarty."
End of Chapter Twenty-Seven