Welcome Home - Radical Face
Peel the scars from off my back. I don't need them anymore.
Chapter Thirty:
The journey was a blur. That was the only way John could describe it. Even between two of them Sherlock's body was heavy and awkward to manoeuvre. And all the way to the sick bay, John's heart was beating like a sledgehammer against his ribs, painful and anxious. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jim's garish, obscene scrawl, the sneering smear of red to match the blood gathered at both his nostrils and lips.
Mycroft stared directly ahead, his face grim and ashen, both arms clinging with surprising strength to his brother's torso. Sherlock lolled in and out of consciousness, his head lolling onto John's shoulder, his feet tripping over themselves. Sometimes he mumbled incoherently in a dazed, thin voice.
The sick bay was deserted, but there was a light coming from behind the frosted glass of the nurse's door. John had been in there more often than the average Redverse student, because of various football injuries. It smelt permanently of disinfectant, sometimes so strong it made his eyes water. And the nurse who presided over it was a stern, no-nonsense, matronly sort of woman in her fifties, who applied band-aids and antiseptic cream with methodical precision. John knew in his gut that she would want Harvey involved. And he was later proven right.
Sherlock was deposited on the bed closest to the nurse's office, while she looked him over with a grim frown. Mycroft looked uncharacteristically pale, his lips pinched and thin. John's fingers itched to brush back the stray strands of hair from Sherlock's face, but he didn't dare to in front of the nurse.
No sooner had she glanced Sherlock's injuries over had she rung for Harvey. Soon after, Mycroft disappeared, without a word to either of them. John barely noticed. He sunk into the chair beside Sherlock's bed and stared at his still figure. He didn't know if he could face staring down Mr. Harvey in a state of what felt like catatonic tiredness. He wanted to curl up beside Sherlock and hold his battered body to him and sleep.
In the nurse's office he could hear her low, serious voice like a quiet buzz of insects. He couldn't make out the words, and he didn't try to. His head throbbed, and a low, tinny ringing had erupted in his ears that seemed to come from deep inside his brain.
From the bed Sherlock gave a soft whimper, but did not stir. John looked slowly over his shoulder to where he could see the nurse's solid silhouette behind the frosted glass door. Drawing in a slightly trembling breath, he reached a hand across and held it against Sherlock's forehead. It felt clammy and warm. From between the slits of his eyelids he could see a sliver of grey, blank and unresponsive to John's touch. Fingers trembling gently, he brushed Sherlock's dark fringe aside.
If it hadn't been for the bruises marring he skin, he could have been asleep. They were forming in varying shades of black, purple and yellow. He could have guessed where every blow had fallen: one on the temple, one at the corner of his mouth, one on his left cheekbone. And the slightly faded outline of the bruise around his eye. He was battered. He was broken. But still beautiful.
He heard the office door open and he jerked back from Sherlock's bed. He heard the nurse's sensible loafers on the tiled floor behind him. She appeared beside Sherlock, fussing with his pillows and looking him over with a taut frown.
"You want to tell me how this happened?" she said curtly, not looking at John. "Mr. Harvey will be coming to see you tomorrow to ask you all about it."
John swallowed, which did nothing to soothe his aching throat. "I... he..." He broke off, rolling the words around in his tacky, dry mouth. "Nothing. Just an accident."
The nurse raised her eyebrows at him, but said nothing. John watched her plump up Sherlock's pillows and carefully fit them under his head, and then set about positioning him more comfortably on the bed. John couldn't help a rush of gratitude for her brisk, unobtrusive manner. It was calming, like a cold hand to his hot, aching forehead.
His tiredness deepened almost into exhaustion. He could have fallen asleep quite happily sitting up, but after a few minutes the nurse turned towards him.
"You could fetch his pyjamas for me, if you know where to find them."
John certainly did know. He wondered vaguely if the nurse knew anything about his and Sherlock's relationship. He doubted it. He didn't see how she would, but there was something almost suggestive about asking him to fetch something so personal.
But he mostly suspected that she had given him the task to get rid of him while she tended to Sherlock's injuries. She would want to make sure that she didn't have to call a doctor in, that none of it was serious. Words like "broken bones" and "internal bleeding" flashed through John's mind.
"Go on now, dear," she said briskly, in what he expected was the kindliest tone of voice she was capable of. "He can't sleep in his clothes, can he?" She looked him over critically. "And you look like you could use some patching up as well."
John nodded and rose to do as he was told. He met no one on his way to or back from the dorms. Sherlock's room was unlocked and empty. He looked from Ben's neatly made bed, to the nest of sheets strewn across Sherlock's.
He felt an uncomfortable prickling behind his eyes, but hurried to carry out his task. He rooted through all of Sherlock's dishevelled drawers before he finally found a pair of faded chequered boxers and a paisley pyjama shirt. He tucked both under his arm and cast one last look around the room.
Sherlock's laptop had been set to sleep; he could see the standby button flashing slowly on and off. A pile of schoolbooks were lying messily on the floor beside his bed. He could have just left moments before. He could have just gone to the bathroom, or to class. Any minute he could walk through that door, untouched and unbruised and smiling in surprise when he saw John standing there in the middle of his room.
When he arrived back at the sick bay, the smell of disinfectant seemed to have strengthened, if that was even possible. The nurse was leaning over Sherlock's motionless figure, dabbing his facial cuts with pink liquid from a clear glass bottle. His shirt was open and John could see a set of bruises dotting his chest and ribs. It made his stomach clench sickeningly. Sherlock had tried to defend him. He had tried to protect him.
"You can dress him in a moment."
"What?" John said, staring at the nurse's back.
"When I've finished patching him up, you can get him into his pyjamas," she replied over her shoulder, not looking up. "I'll pull the hangings."
John's heart gave what he could only describe as a wobble. "Ok," he croaked. He stared blankly around the sick bay. Mycroft was still not back.
He watched the nurse work in silence. She seemed to have infinite patience in her work. She located each of Sherlock's cuts, even the tiniest one behind his ear or under his eyebrow and tended to it. John was glad Sherlock wasn't awake to feel the sting of Dettol on each of his tender wounds.
"There we go," she said at length, bringing John out of an almost dreamlike state. She stood and turned to him. She had a handful of bloodied cotton wool. "He needs rest." She looked at him sternly, as though she suspected he may have a rock concert in mind. "You can stay, but only if you sit quietly."
John nodded, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. His head had lolled to one side, his mouth was very slightly open and a trickle of disinfectant rolled down his cheek from a cut in the corner of his eye. It looked like a teardrop.
"Do you want me to dress him... completely?" John said, begging himself not to go red.
The nurse raised her eyebrows. "If you don't mind."
Then she was gone, and John was alone with Sherlock's body and his pyjamas. He could only describe his movement towards the bed as a creep. He thought at any moment Sherlock would awaken, but he didn't. He was still. Very still. Not a single one of his fingers twitched, his chest barely seemed to rise when he breathed. It was the stillest John had ever seen a person. It was almost corpselike.
His body gave an uncomfortable shudder and he thrust away the thought, as he leant over to tug away Sherlock's shirt away. He expected him to wake at every touch and movement, but Sherlock was limp and pliable as a ragdoll.
It made John's job somewhat awkward. He had never experienced having someone's total and unrestrained weight on him. It made undressing him very difficult, but it also gave John an opportunity to become intimately acquainted with all of the marks left on Sherlock's body. Every bruise, every cut filled John with a frighteningly intense rage. He would never forgive Jim for what he had done.
Sherlock's head lolled onto his shoulder, and both of his nostrils were suddenly full of the smell of his hair.
John froze in his seat, still in the motion of struggling Sherlock into his pyjama shirt. He closed his eyes with a soft breath out. It ran through Sherlock's hair like wind through a field of barley, making it shake and twitch against his skin.
Returning to his task was difficult. His fingers felt clumsy, as he struggled Sherlock out of his school shirt and into his faded old pyjama shirt. A shirt he probably hadn't worn for years and would complain incessantly about when he came to.
Yes, when he came to. It would probably be in an hour or two, surely. He would have to ask the nurse. It couldn't be long.
He craned his neck to look at Sherlock's face, limp against his collarbone. Despite the uncomfortable position, he could have been in the sweetest of sleeps. His features were relaxed and distant. It didn't look like he was going to spring awake any time soon.
When he was comfortably in his pyjama shirt, John arranged him back against the pillows. It was very much like handling a life-sized doll. Sherlock's weight was warm and floppy. There was a part of John that didn't want to let go of him. He wanted to hold him, his slim, pliable, warm body in his arms and be holding him when he awoke.
But instead he turned his attention to Sherlock's lower-half. The school trousers were loose on his thin legs and thoroughly wrinkled and faded. John fingered the battered leather belt absentmindedly.
It wasn't as though he hadn't seen Sherlock unclothed dozens of times before, it wasn't as though he hadn't undressed him dozens of times before, but it seemed different to do it when he was unconscious.
He loosened up Sherlock's belt with clammy fingers and tugged it off with some difficulty from underneath him. He tossed it onto the sick bay floor and pulled down Sherlock's overly large trousers in one smooth motion. Sherlock's legs were deathly pale, and dotted here and there with bruises, in varying shades of purple and yellow.
John removed his shoes for good measure, but left his socks. He tugged on the boxers, realising too late that the reason they may have been neglected for so long was because they had a massive hole close to the crotch.
"Oh, well," he muttered, struggling to move Sherlock's legs back under the hospital blankets.
He sat back on the bed and examined his handiwork. Sherlock hadn't stirred, hadn't uttered a sound. The paisley pyjama shirt looked ridiculous on him, and John reminded himself to take the piss out of him about it when he woke up.
He sighed to himself, fighting the urge to curl up beside him on the bed.
When he woke up. God knew when that would be.
...
John turned the cigarette around in his fingers once more. He held it up to his nose and sniffed it offhandedly. It smelt stale and vaguely sickly. It didn't smell like something he wanted to inhale.
He exhaled slowly and slipped it back into his coat pocket. It had been a half-arsed thought anyway. He didn't know if he had really intended on smoking it. He had only smoked once before, when he had been about fifteen, and had decided amongst a spluttering coughing fit that he had not liked it.
To be honest, he didn't think he really wanted the cigarette at all. Not for the reasons he told himself when he had found it in the pocket of Sherlock's school shirt and transferred it into his own.
The nurse had give him an arch, amused look when she had returned to find Sherlock's uniform neatly folded on the foot of his bed. John didn't see what was wrong with keeping things orderly.
He didn't really know why he had taken the fag. He told himself it was because he didn't want the nurse to find it if she happened to move Sherlock's clothes. Which was partly true. There had been a truly foolish part of himself that insisted it was because he needed something to calm his frayed nerves, but he knew all very well it was bullshit. He would gain no peace of mind from an old, stale cigarette.
But- He lifted it up to his nose and smelt it again. Was that the smell of Sherlock's pocket? Was that Sherlock's skin impregnated on the wrapper? Or was his mind just playing cruel tricks on him?
There was the sound of shoes crunching on the gravel behind him, and he quickly shoved the unlit cigarette into his pocket. He didn't turn around, even as the footsteps neared him. He could sense someone behind him, standing just a few inches from him, but he didn't turn.
In his mind's eye, he could see Sherlock. He was rugged up in his trench coat and his scarf and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. The bruises were still stark on his pale skin, but he was smiling. A small, ironic smile. He would tap John on the shoulder. John would turn. And-
"John?"
John jerked his head around, cricking his neck in the process. Ben stared owlishly back at him, wearing his school jumper over jeans and a t-shirt. John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
He cleared his throat and tried again. "Ben. Sorry, mate."
He suddenly wished he had been firmer when Mycroft had insisted he get some fresh air. But it was hard being firm with Mycroft. He had a polite, but utterly uncompromising manner of persuasion, gently but absolutely nudging John from the room and promising he would keep a firm watch over Sherlock until his return.
Since the day before, Mycroft had appeared in the hospital sporadically to cast a brief glance over his brother. He had also taken it upon himself to ensure John was eating at regular intervals, which John sensed was his way of letting him know that he finally approved, finally saw what John had been trying to show him from the day they had met: that he cared for his brother.
"Nah, it's ok," Ben said. He glanced away, gnawing absently on his bottom lip. "Just came out for a walk," he added with a cough, as though John might suspect otherwise.
There was something tense about how he was holding himself and how he was speaking that John could see from a mile off. He had fairly decent idea why he was here.
" So... how's... Sherlock?" Ben said tentatively, avoiding his eye.
John shrugged, sliding a hand into his pocket to finger the crumbling cigarette. "Unconscious."
Ben let out a quick, soft breath. "God."
"Yeah, someone smacked his head against the wall pretty hard," John replied nonchalantly. He imagined what it would be like to wring Jim's neck. He thought it would be really, truly satisfying to watch the last spark of humanity leave the pissworm's eyes. But knowing Jim, he'd laugh even as his neck snapped.
"Fuck, mate," Ben said, with another short, sharp breath out.
John shrugged. He didn't know what Ben expected him to say. He didn't know what to say. He had spent over twelve hours hunched over in the sick bay, and he felt barely capable of stringing a complete sentence together.
"Fuck, mate," Ben said again, taking two steps forward and turning abruptly to face him. He looked pale and slightly ill. "You sure he's going to be ok?"
"I'm not a doctor," John said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. "I dunno. I suppose so. Otherwise they would have called an ambulance I guess."
He sighed, trailing the hand through his hair. He wanted Ben to leave him alone, wanted to have a few minutes just to breathe. But maybe it was just as well Ben was present. If he was left alone he'd probably take the cigarette out again and there he would be: rolling the cigarette around on his face like some attention-deprived kitten with a lump of catnip.
"Look, Ben," he said at length, without fully intending to speak. "I would really appreciate a minute alone."
He knew his behaviour was altogether unsubtle, and that he couldn't explain away his obvious misery. But he no longer cared. Let the whole school know that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, let the whole county know it. He didn't care. They had done their worst, and he was still standing. Sherlock was still standing. Even unconscious he was spitting in their eye. He was living proof that they would not be beaten down by shitheads.
"John, I gotta tell you something," Ben blurted out.
John looked at his face. "What?" he said dully. What more could there possibly be left to tell?
"I called him," Ben said, looking at his face desperately.
"Called who?" John snapped, his patience fraying faster than ever before. "Ben, just tell me what you're going on about. I'm so over this crap."
"Sherlock's... Sherlock's brother. I called him," Ben said. "I told him to come down here."
John stared at him. "What? What did you say?"
"I found his number in Sherlock's things," Ben said hurriedly, looking awkwardly from John to his feet and back again. "Look, I know it's a dog thing to do, but I was fucking shitting myself. Moriarty... And Marty- Fuck, man. I didn't know what to do."
John just stared at him blankly.
Ben was jiggling from foot to foot, staring all around him, but not at John. "I know I should have done something. I know. But I didn't know Jim was this fucked up, you know?"
"Why didn't you just tell a teacher?" John asked, his mind still bubbling stagnantly over what Ben was telling him.
Ben sent him a look that meant quite clearly "are you fucking kidding me?" John knew he was right. The teachers would have done fuck all. Jim Moriarty was a model student. Popular, well-spoken, academically brilliant. Who would believe that he had any grudge against a spiky outcast like Sherlock? Maybe Hurst would have. But not Harvey, certainly not Harvey.
"He had his brother's number on his desk, under a bunch of crap. I dunno. I just saw his name, and I called." Ben shrugged, not altogether convincingly.
John stared. He didn't know what to do, or what to say. Half of him was proposing punching Ben in the jaw for not trying to stop what had happened in a more active manner. It had been a long shot calling Mycroft. A long shot that almost didn't pay off.
"Sherlock could have been killed," he said, looking hard at Ben. "Where the hell were you?"
"I know," Ben replied, looking wretched. "Man, I know I'm a dog. I know it, ok? I wish I had had the guts to stand up to that cunt."
"It probably wouldn't have done any good," John said bitterly. "He probably would have beaten you to hell."
"Might still happen," Ben said, smiling humourlessly.
"What do you mean?" John frowned at him, still toying with the cigarette in his pocket. He had rolled it around and around in his fingers to the point where most of the tobacco had spilt out and was stuck to his clammy fingertips.
"Jim hates my guts," Ben said, seeming remarkably casual about it. "He knows I never wanted to go along with it. He probably knows that I'm the one who called Sherlock's brother, seeing as I'm the only one who has access to his room. He'll piece it together. He's too fucking clever not to. And when he does, he'll make sure I suffer."
John felt a sudden surge of realisation regarding the risks Ben was taking in even talking to him now. He was toxic. He was friendship poison. Nobody would dare even look at him now. He was marked. Tarred. Not just an outcast, but a fully realised pariah.
"You should get out," John said.
Ben looked at him. "And go where? And tell my parents what? I can't run away."
John was quiet for a moment. He hadn't thought about his own future at Redverse. The thought hadn't even occurred to him. There were so many things he cared about at that moment, but Redverse was not one of them.
"Seen Harvey yet?" Ben said, his tone becoming more conversational.
John shook his head. "No. I reckon he'll come tonight, when everyone's out of the way."
Ben cocked his head at him. "You know he's going to try and stitch you up, right?"
John grunted. "I'm counting on it."
They were silent for some time. Ben turned and stood next to him and they both watched one of the lower grades run around the field below, while a teacher in a t-shirt and shorts blasted a whistle at them. It sang piercingly through the cold.
It felt like a very long time before John finally spoke. He could have happily stood there for an hour or two, silently beside his last friend, but he had been gone from the sick bay longer than he had intended. He wanted to be back beside Sherlock. It gave him at least a small flicker of comfort to be with him. Nothing else seemed to soothe his battered psyche.
"I better get back to... um," John didn't think it was necessary to continue pretending he wasn't spending every hour of the day beside his ex-boyfriend's sickbed, but old habits died hard.
Ben smiled wryly. "Sherlock."
"Mmm, yeah," John said, staring at the ground.
Ben nodded. "See ya later, John."
To John's surprise, he pulled him into a hug. It was brief, and John barely had a chance to respond before Ben was stepping away and walking away. John watched him go. He didn't yet know that it would be the last time they would ever speak.
He walked back to the sick bay, feeling admittedly better than he thought he would. He had gone to satisfy Mycroft, but his conversation with Ben had assuaged his mind, ever so slightly.
He took a detour by his dorm room for clean clothes and a shower, and was thankful for the midday calm. Lunch was over, everyone was in class. He didn't yet have to face anyone.
His room was exactly as he had left it, which he almost found surprising. He had almost expected to find it ransacked and his door decorated similarly to how Sherlock's had been weeks before. But it was almost eerily untouched.
He showered and dressed in peace, and took a stash of pyjamas and clothes with him in a duffel bag. He didn't like to think too much about how long it would be before Sherlock woke up, but he wanted to be prepared. He didn't want to have to face his classmates before he had to. He was happy to live in the sick bay on chocolate bars from the vending machine and a few mouthfuls of filtered water from the cooler in the nurse's office. He had already insisted to her that he would not be leaving until Sherlock woke. She had been surprisingly understanding, and had offered to let him kip on the empty bed next to Sherlock's, but John was happy sleeping upright.
He arrived at the sick bay and found the door wide open. He walked noiselessly into the now familiar hall of beds and linoleum.
Mycroft was seated in the chair he had vacated when he had left over an hour beforehand. He was leaning forward, towards his brother's still form, and one of his, achingly familiar, pale, spindly hands was resting on Sherlock's forehead.
John realised he had stumbled upon a tender moment that Mycroft probably would not wish him to witness. Still, he couldn't help looking upon the scene with a wistful ache in his chest. He had wanted to touch Sherlock for so long, but he had denied himself. It was too painful. They were broken up. Someone might walk in on them. It would just make matters worse. Or so he told himself.
He gave himself a small shake, knowing he had to make himself known. He dropped his bag loudly beside him, plunging down under the pretence of searching for something amongst the clothes inside. He heard Mycroft's chair give a squeak as he sat back quickly.
"John," he said, sounding completely unfazed.
John haphazardly grabbed a jumper from his bag and stood up. "Hi," he said, feeling awkward. "I got some clothes," he added needlessly.
"Cold, are we?" Mycroft said archly, nodding his head at the jumper in John's hand.
John was already wearing one. He shrugged, blushing. "A bit," he mumbled.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows with the ghost of a smile on his lips. He stood up, brushing off his spotless suit. John had no idea how he managed to look so well put-together after spending the night at Redverse. Unless he had made an extremely rapid visit to London.
"Where have you been disappearing off to?" John asked. He didn't know if he'd have had the courage to question Mycroft in such a blunt manner if he hadn't been through what he had been through the day before.
Mycroft looked at him, his expression absent. "Hm?"
"Where do you go?" John said, fairly certain that Mycroft had heard him.
"Oh, here and there," he replied in a breezy fashion. "Had some things to tend to."
John watched him walk to the door. He was certain he knew what Mycroft had been "tending" to. He had no doubt that he had been making sure that Harvey held the right parties accountable for his brother's injuries, that he had pinned Harvey down and had him running scared. John wondered how long it would take him to realise that Mycroft, well-spoken and polite as always, was ten times more dangerous than the average, hysterical parent.
John turned back to Sherlock, still laying pale-faced and motionless amongst a cocoon of hospital blankets. A crusty, yellow film had developed over his lips, his hair was hanging in stringy, greasy strands over his face. The nurse had been keeping his cuts and bruises well-cleaned with the bottle of harsh-smelling pink stuff, but as a result they looked shiny and sticky, like burns.
John knew that he would still have given anything to rub his face against Sherlock's, to inhale him, to kiss him, to feel him against him. He could hardly have been more perfect.
"I'll pop in later," Mycroft said, in a crisp, chipper tone that suggested he was preparing himself for another courteous assault on Harvey's nerves.
John nodded and turned to him. "Harvey is going to want to talk to me soon." He didn't know why he was telling him. Maybe part of him was hoping that Mycroft was here for him too, and would defend him as well as his brother.
"Yes," Mycroft said, his hand on the door. "I suppose he will. And I suppose it would be very prudent for me to be there during the meeting, as your parents are not yet present." He gave a brief smile. "I'll bring you a sandwich, John. Do try and keep your fluids up, won't you?"
And with that, he was gone.
...
As it turned out, John did have a parent present when he finally faced Harvey the following morning, but Mycroft attended nonetheless. It was obvious, by the way Harvey's eyes frequently darted towards the older Holmes boy, as he sat languidly in a chair at the back of the room, legs crossed and his umbrella leaning against the wall beside him, that it had not been with his blessing that he was there.
John glanced across at his mother. She was wearing a tired expression and a slightly faded green coat. Her hair was ruffled; one of her hands was rested on the table, the acrylic nails slightly worn and chipped since John saw them last. They hadn't had a proper chance to talk. John wondered if she had spoken to his father at all about him. He wondered if she even knew why he'd stopped going to John's games, why he was probably storming around the house in a foul mood of unknowable origins.
Across from him, pale and wind-swept, was Marty Hester; Bruce Hester was seated beside him, his flabby, overfed face lowered to his chest and deeply grim. Along the table were the two other boys who had accosted John in the dorm toilets. One of them was Harris, with his equally red-haired mother in a smart, navy suit. On the end was Billy, who looked uncannily like his gormless, hulking father.
John looked from boy to boy to boy. None of them were looking at him. Marty was staring blankly at the table in between them, his eyes blank. Along the table the others were looking in opposite directions, with unreadably absent expressions on their faces.
John surveyed them bitterly. Jim's little soldiers. How well he had trained them. Moriarty himself was not yet present, and John was not sure how he would react when he saw him. He had been experiencing intense moments of unbridled rage, when he thought that the most likely thing was for him to throw himself at him and beat him until his arms hurt. But he had been wrestling with these irrational outbursts with the knowledge that Sherlock would give him his most withering look if he knew that John had wrestled Jim to the ground in a moment of unadulterated loathing. It would achieve nothing. So he would apply every ounce of willpower to resisting the urge to take immediate and violent revenge. He would wait.
Harvey had spent upwards of ten minutes shuffling papers in front of him and glancing around the room in a ruffled, dissatisfied manner. Finally, Marty's father gave a dry, imperious cough that shook his voluminous beer belly.
"Look, are we going to get a move on or not? I have to be back at work by midday," he said in a surly tone that irked John. If it had been his son who had been accused of terrorising fellow students, he would have at least had the decency not to act as though the proceedings were a complete waste of time.
"Of course," Harvey blustered, straightening the papers again. His eyes darted in the direction of where Mycroft sat. John couldn't relish his discomfort; he was impatient to see justice done, to see the true perpetrator appear. "I'm glad you are all here. I'm hoping we can sort things out in a polite, orderly fashion."
John looked sideways at his mother. Her eyes were fixed on Harvey; her lips were pursed. John watched her furl and unfurl her fingers on the table top.
"It disappoints me to have to call a meeting like this," Harvey went on in a heavy, sage fashion. "Especially when all five of you have such promising futures at this school." He kept his eyes pointedly downwards, and John wondered if he was purposely avoiding his eye. He hadn't looked in his direction once since they had sat down.
"I'm sure it's just a bit of rough and tumble," Bruce Hester said, with an imperious snort. "Boys do this sort of thing. There's no need to get hysterical." He looked at John with an expression that suggested that he blamed him for this entire situation.
"Yes, I am sure that is the case-" Harvey began hastily.
"You call this a bit of "rough and tumble"?"
John jumped slightly at his mother's voice. He looked quickly at her, and saw her eyes were flashing behind their passive blue irises. Her finger was directed at John's face. He was very conscious of the bruises sitting heavily on his features.
"He was made to bleed," his mother said, her teeth gritted. "Your son made my son bleed."
"He's done worse on the field," Bruce retorted defensively. "And to be perfectly frank, madam, if all of this fuss is over a few bruises then God help us. Boys need a bit of toughening up."
"Please!" Harvey spluttered, holding up a hand, as Mrs. Watson furiously opened her mouth to retort. "Please, this is helping no one."
"Fine," Hester said impatiently. "So what's to be done? Detention for a week? Washing up duty for a month? What?"
"Billy can't afford to miss school, Mr. 'Arvey," Billy's mother chipped in, her eyes like two sharp coals in the midst of a vast, doughy face. "He's got exams as it is."
"And what about the football season?" Mr. Hester said sharply. "Surely the school wouldn't punish the entire team by forbidding them from playing? They'd be three players-" he glanced coldly at John- "four players down."
Harvey looked shocked. "Of course not. That is the very last thing any of us wants, I am sure."
"Are you saying that a petty, little football tournament is more important than my son being beaten?" John's mother snapped.
"What are you calling "petty"?" Bruce Hester retorted. "I know your son doesn't hold much loyalty for the team, but-"
"How dare you," Mrs. Watson said poisonously. "How dare you sit there and accuse my son when your own flesh and blood has done this." She jabbed a furious finger into John's face again.
Hester had gone brilliantly purple. "Maybe if he had some will to fight-"
"What the hell does that mean?" John's mother spat.
Hester's features went icy cold, as he stared at her. "It means, madam, that your son has almost singlehandedly destroyed this school's reputation with his fucking nancying about-"
John was almost thrown back in his seat, as all five feet and four inches of his mother propelled out of the chair beside him. There was a sound like a bag of wet sand hitting cement, a mighty SCHMACK! And John realised with a thrill of horror and exultation that his mother had slapped Hester rather hard across his plump face.
"Madam! Please!" Mr. Harvey was wailing, as Hester reeled back in his chair, his face a perfect painting of indignation and disbelief. "Please be reasonable!"
The other parents were staring at Mrs. Watson with similar expressions of alarm, as though they expected her to turn on them next. John looked at Marty. His expression had not changed. In fact, he could have been staring at the same chip in the table's surface since they had sat down. He barely seemed to be aware of what was happening around him.
"You crazy, old cow," Hester said in a muffled tone, holding his arm over his face, whether to defend himself from further attacks or dull the sting John wasn't certain.
"Madam, please sit down," Harvey said pleadingly, looking close to tears.
Mrs. Watson haughtily took her seat again. John felt a swell of fond pride in his chest. Under the table he gave his mother's hand a quick, firm squeeze. She looked at him briefly, her eyes still blazing, and squeezed back twice as hard.
"After careful consideration," Harvey said slowly, eyes darting between the people around the table, "I have decided that, disappointing as it is, as all have admitted their involvement I have no choice but to take action."
John glanced at the boys opposite. That they had owned up at all was surprising. He could only assume that fear had driven them to it. There was not even the slightest trace of defiance in their expressions. They could have been robots for all their reaction to the commotion that had just broken out in front of them.
"Fine," his mother said curtly. "I think a month's suspension is hardly asking too much, and that should include all football training and games. This is supposed to be a punishment, not a bloody holiday camp."
"No, absolutely not," Hester said staunchly. "This is the most important time of the year for football! They could lose the whole competition!"
"Maybe they could just miss out on training," Harvey said weakly.
"That does not sound like a punishment to me," Mrs. Watson snapped, at the same time Bruce Hester snapped: "they need those practices!"
The two of them glared at each other. Harvey looked between them miserably.
"My son has been beaten up," Mrs Watson said finally, in a tone of dangerous calm. "If you won't do anything, I will remove him from this school-"
Hester snorted.
"And then I will go to the most sympathetic current affairs program and fill them in on exactly what happens in this place behind parents' backs."
The colour drained from Harvey's face in one magnificent rush. "Threats will not help the situation-"
"Oh, that isn't a threat," Mrs. Watson said softly. "It's a promise."
There was a tense silence. It seemed to John that even Bruce Hester believed his mother capable of it. At that moment he had no doubt that she would do it. Harvey, by the look of his pasty countenance, certainly did not doubt.
"I can promise you that we take these things very seriously," Harvey said, in his best parent-pacifying voice. "They will be dealt with severely-"
"What about Jim?"
Nobody seemed to hear John. Bruce Hester and his mother had broken out into a new bout of squabbling at Harvey's words and Harvey was staring at them morosely.
John raised his voice. "Excuse me. What about Jim Moriarty?"
Nobody looked at him. Mr. Harvey was now trying to cut into his mother and Bruce Hester's argument in his usual ineffective, blustering fashion. John exhaled impatiently.
"Excuse me!" he snapped. "What about Jim Moriarty?"
The boys opposite were staring at him now. Their faces blank, but their eyes sharp and fearful. They had gone tense in their seats. It was the first time that they had shown anything like emotion.
"- total waste of time!" Bruce Hester was bawling, his face brilliantly ruddy.
"Please! Please, calm yourselves!" Harvey said, in a would-be stern voice.
"Listen to me!" John roared, his voice slicing through the bickering. He was met by several pairs of astonished eyes. He lowered his voice, ignoring their stares. "What about Moriarty? Where is he?"
Harvey knitted his brow. "What do you mean, John?"
John rolled his eyes. "What do I mean? I mean why isn't he here?"
He felt a ripple of unease go through his peers opposite. He stared hard at Marty; he looked back vacantly, his eyes narrowed. John felt his mother touch his arm.
"Dear?" she said pointedly. "What do you mean?"
John shook his head, exhaling irritably. He looked between her and Harvey. "He instigated the whole thing. It's his fault that Sherlock's-" He cut off. "He did it."
There was a pause, a silence that froze the blood in John's veins. Why weren't they telling him that they already knew this? Why weren't they saying that Jim had been put into isolation, awaiting punishment, certain expulsion? Why?
"I wasn't aware..." Harvey trailed off, looking at the four boys along the left side of the table, divided between their frowning parentals.
"He wasn't there," Marty said blankly, not looking at anyone.
Harvey furrowed his brow deeper and looked along to Billy. Billy shook his head, quickly and briefly, staring hard at the table in front of him.
"That's bullshit," John spat. "How can you sit there and lie?"
"John, please," Harvey said, in what he evidently thought a soothing tone. "I can certainly talk to Jim, if that would make you feel better-"
"What would make me feel better is if he was held to account for being a sadistic, violent prick," John retorted, his hands balled up in rage.
"John," his mother said softly, her hand appearing on the arm of his jumper. "Are you sure?"
John shook away her hand. He looked sharply around at Mycroft, who had been sitting serenely in his corner, surveying the events. "You know," he snapped. "You know he was involved. This was all him. Everything."
He knew how he sounded: crazy, paranoid. This was all the fantastical ravings of someone who had just been bashed up and was probably still a bit addled in the head. Jim Moriarty was a model student, a charming and charismatic genius. The boys had owned up to everything. Jim Moriarty was guiltless.
"Mycroft, tell them," he said sharply.
Mycroft simply looked at him, his knuckles white on the handle of his umbrella. It was clear that there was nothing he could say to convince anyone that Moriarty had been involved. What evidence did he have? The word of his own brother? Nothing.
John stood up, his heart beating hard and forceful in his chest. "You," he stared at the boys opposite, at their vacant, pitiless faces. "You're going to let him get away with this. Why? Because you're too bloody gutless to stand up to him! You bastards!" He realised he was shouting, the blood was pounding in his ears, but he couldn't stop. "You fucking cowards!"
"John," his mother was staring at him, her face papery white. "John, please sit down."
She tried to touch his arm again, but John tore himself away from her and headed for the door. He burst out into the empty, cold corridor, trying to force back the enraged sobs that were wracking his body.
His bruises stung in the draughty cold. All of it, all of the pain, the anguish, the humiliation, was for nothing. Sherlock was laying in a hospital bed for nothing.
"It's all for nothing," he spat, halting in the middle of the corridor.
He heard footsteps behind him. Brisk, businesslike steps that were the very opposite of Sherlock's ambling strides.
Mycroft appeared beside him, peering at him in an uncharacteristically sheepish fashion. "John, I'm sorry."
John shook his head, staring hard at the grimy window at the end of the corridor. "Not your fault."
Mycroft gave a short, bitter chuckle. "It could be."
John looked at him wordlessly. It struck him again, the gentle similarities between Mycroft and his younger brother: their alabaster complexions, the sharp clarity of their eyes, their utterly devastating intelligence. Though John suspected that Sherlock had not yet learnt to hone his brilliance, or curb his obsessive personality. He lacked the self-control Mycroft had evidently forced himself to learn. Mycroft had tried to force Sherlock to learn it too. Unsuccessfully.
Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh, and shifted his umbrella from one arm to the other. "I tried to wrangle it out of them, but people can be remarkably resistant when they're frightened."
John stared at him, realisation dawning on him like an unpleasant smell. "You were trying to make them admit Jim did it?"
"Simply put, yes," Mycroft said, sighing again. He shook his head. "Short of threatening dismemberment, I did all I could. They are... uncooperative."
John whirled on his heel, intending to march back and force them to admit Jim's involvement. Mycroft hastily grabbed hold of his elbow, his grip surprisingly strong.
"John! John, it will do no good!"
John turned to him angrily. "So he just gets away with it?" he shook his head in disbelief. "He can't do this, Mycroft. He's destroyed... everything." His voice was becoming dangerously brittle.
"No, I hope not," Mycroft said, watching him steadily and seriously. "I still have hope that Jim will not escape punishment for what he did, but it will not come from those boys. They are too damaged, too utterly damaged to be any help to you, John."
John said nothing. His throat was throbbing, and he needed Mycroft's words to be true desperately.
"Seek justice, by all means, but don't be consumed by lust for vengeance. Try to be happy, John. Be happy that you are not like them. Be happy that you and Sherlock were the target of Jim's antipathy, and not a tool of it."
John nodded. He could not feel happy at that moment. Mycroft's words seemed too elusive, and too profound for him to understand, but later, as a young man, and then as an adult, they gained more and more significance for him, and soon he was able to be happy, truly happy that he had been the victim of Jim's malignance and not a weapon of it.
"John!"
He looked back over his shoulder to where his mother was jogging down to meet him, balancing surprisingly skilfully on her favoured pair of impractical cream pumps. Mycroft gave a small amused cough.
"Well... I'd best get back to my post. I should be in the sick bay later to check up on things," he said, immediately melting back to his usual businesslike self. "That nurse of Sherlock's is a menace with that anti-bacterial wash. I swear she's trying to drown him in it."
John nodded at him with a small smile that seemed to call on all of the muscles in his face to produce. He turned back to his mother. She halted in front of him, puffing a little, and leaning a hand heavily on his shoulder for support.
"John, darling, what on earth is the matter?" she said, clutching his face between cold, lined hands. "Please tell me. You're scaring the life out of me." She looked over him critically. "Look at the mess those little cunts made to your handsome face."
"Mum," John said embarrassedly, pulling away. He glanced over his shoulder, but Mycroft was already on his way back to the meeting room.
"Well, I'm sorry, but those nasty little bullies deserve everything they get," she retorted. "And that moron isn't going to do what's right, is he? Bloody sap." She patted the pocket of her faded, pea green coat. "Let's go outside. I need a fag. Those idiots can wait for us for all I care."
John nodded and followed her out without argument. He still had Sherlock's cigarette in the pocket of his jeans; he had taken to carrying it around with him.
They perched on the crumbling step outside of a service door, and John watched his mother take one of her slim cigarettes out of the slightly crushed packet and perch it between her lips to light it. She turned her head to exhale, but the smell filled John's nostrils and his mind.
"You know I told your father to come," his mother said at length, looking at him with the cigarette perched beside her in two finger. "He wouldn't. Something about work."
"He probably didn't want Bruce Hester seeing what a pathetic loser he has for a son," John said bitterly. He kicked at the crumbling edge of the powdery step, determinedly avoiding his mother's soft, blue eyes.
"Oh, darling, no," his mother said, forcing his chin up with a finger. "He's ashamed of himself." She snorted. "And so he should be. He has certainly not been "father of the year", but that isn't your fault."
John watched his mother silently, the words bubbling up inside of him slowly. He wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her. And he knew it would be ok. "Mum," he began, as she turned to take another drag of her cigarette. He could feel the small dent in his chin from her acrylic nail. "Mum, I have to tell you something."
She looked at him quickly, accidentally exhaling into his face. "Yes, darling?" She took a tight hold of his hand.
John stared at her. "Me," he said artlessly," "me and Sherlock-"
He broke off, the heat rising in his face. His mother squeezed his hand with a wan twitch of her lips.
"It's alright, darling," she said softly. "I know."
John simply looked at her. She tugged at his elbows, dropping the half-smoked cigarette over her shoulder onto the gravel. She pulled him into her arms, and he didn't resist. He burrowed his face into the smell of her coat, inhaling the smoke and the perfume and his mother's shampoo, the same shampoo she had been use for ten years, the same shampoo she had been using since he was just a child and needed her to take him up in her arms and rock him when he had nightmares.
"Mum..." he said weakly into her shoulder. "Everything is such a mess."
She stroked his hair, making the same hushing sound she had when he had been five. For once, he didn't duck away from her or complain that he was too old, he was glad to be her baby again. Maybe just one last time. "Shush, darling," she said softly. "It's alright."
John didn't know how long they stood like that, his mother's arms wrapped around him possessive and tight, and his face buried warmly into the collar of her coat. It wasn't until one of the gardeners disturbed them, coming across the gravel with his wheelbarrow, that John shuffled out of her embrace.
"We better..." he said bashfully, he gestured to the service door.
His mother blinked at him in an owlish way, her eyes suddenly damp. "Oh, my Johnny boy," she said, feeling for a tissue in her pocket.
"Mum," John said, horrified. "There's no reason to cry." He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder of her coat. "It's fine. I'm fine! Look!"
He realised too late that his bruised and battered face was probably not an overwhelming indicator of his fineness.
His mother gave him a watery smile and blew her nose noisily. "I know, dear. I just wish I had- Oh it doesn't matter..."
She shook her head and, before John could coax anything more out of her, had turned and disappeared back into the school. He followed her, wondering if he could face going back into the meeting. The anger was too near, the desire to take out his rage on the boys who had so willingly done Jim's bidding too strong and overwhelming.
At the door of the boardroom, he grabbed his mother's elbow. "Mum, I don't want to go back in there."
She nodded, knitting her eyebrows concernedly. "That's alright, Johnny. You don't have to. Maybe it would be better if you went and found..." She looked at him sideways. "Found your friend."
John nodded. That was exactly what he had hoped to do. He gave his mother's arm a quick squeeze and turned to leave, but before he could he felt her grip the arm of his jumper.
"One more thing," she said quickly. "How did you like your present?"
John looked at her blankly.
"Your Christmas present," she clarified, raising her eyebrows.
"Oh!" John felt a flush of embarrassment. He hadn't even thought about the brown parcel in weeks. It had been sitting in his desk at the very back of his consciousness. "Oh... I... I haven't had a chance to-"
His mother smiled wanly at him, seeming to understand that his not opening the present was probably for the same reason he had stopped replying to her letters.
"It's alright, darling. You open it when you feel like it."
She kissed him briefly on the cheek and was gone, leaving John to stare guiltily after her, feeling like the worst son since Oedipus.
He decided to make a detour past his dorm room. He let himself in and found that it still held the same mournful air of abandonment that it had yesterday when he'd been there, despite Billy's side of the room being its usual disordered chaos.
John's side of the room could have lain untouched for months by the look of it. Apparently Billy thought he might catch gay if he touched any of John's belongings, which was fine with him. He didn't want anyone thumbing through his things.
He gave the depressing interior the once over and crossed to his desk. It was as neat as he had left it, with his school books on the left, and his laptop on the right. He opened the top drawer and was almost surprised to see his mother's parcel still sitting there, virtually untouched.
He tugged it out and went straight to his bed to open it. It had been so long since his mother had sent it to him. His stomach twisted as he fingered at the Sellotape on the folds of the brown paper. It was something very light and oddly shaped inside. He couldn't feel what it was through the paper, or his brain made no suggestions of what it could be.
He managed to tear open one half of it and, with a quick, deep breath, tipped it upside down onto his bed. There was a soft hiss as something rushed down the brown paper and landed noiselessly on his bed covers. He realised even before he saw it properly what it was, and his heart stood still in his chest.
End of Chapter Thirty