Chapter the Second
John doesn't see Creepy Holmes again for a good week or so after that. Well, that's not strictly true; he sees him, generally out of the corner of his eye as a flurry of dark curls disappearing around a corner or through a door, but they don't talk again, don't even lock eyes like they did for those long minutes in the common room. In some bizarre way, John finds himself missing…not missing Holmes, that would be weird, but missing…the strangeness of Holmes, the bizarre puzzle of interacting with him.
Because as odd and new as the castle is, the people here are really very, desperately, boringly normal. His days fall into a steady rhythm of class, food, football practice, homework, and sleep. He doesn't hear the violin at night again, but finds himself half-listening for the faint strains of a Vivaldi concerto drifting through his wall. He tells himself he's being stupid, but somewhere deep down he yearns for that mournful timbre to keep him company when he wakes up in the middle of the night from another nightmare.
But Holmes keeps his distance, until one night when he pauses next to John's table at dinner. Glancing up from his plate, John regards the lanky figure towering over him with interest that he can't quite hide.
"You don't usually eat alone," Holmes says abruptly, and is that…awkwardness in his voice? John should have guessed that the boy who plays violin at midnight in his psycho single isn't exactly well socialized, but Holmes looking uncomfortable still comes as a shock.
"Yeah, well, Lestrade's away at a rugby game tonight," John shrugs while wondering why he feels the need to explain this to the boy he's talked to once. Truth is, he's been dreading a long, solitary night of schoolwork; the mountains of work at this place don't leave much time for socializing, and he doesn't really have friends apart from his roommate.
"And you don't have anyone else to sit with," Holmes concludes, echoing John's thoughts uncannily. With his usual catlike grace, Holmes slides into the rickety wooden chair opposite John before he can so much as open his mouth to protest. A hot flash of irritation roars into John's ears, along with the thought: Who the hell does he think he is?
"Did I say you could sit down?" John snaps. Surprise flickers through Holmes' pale eyes, and those thick, dark eyebrows rise to someplace between shock and disapproval. Instantly, John is mortified.
"I wasn't aware that you were the owner of this chair," Holmes says coldly, standing up stiffly. "Do excuse my ignorance."
John's first instinct is to crumble under that icy gaze and sink down in his chair in humiliation. But something inside him refuses to back down, refuses to squirm under the microscope, refuses to do exactly what he's sure Holmes is used to. Instead, he returns the boy's cold stare steadily, his face settling easily into a mask of calm.
"I'd just appreciate a little common courtesy," he shrugs, part of him wondering why on earth he's asking the midnight violinist to be considerate. "If that's below you then I guess you can go find somewhere else to sit."
He can feel Holmes' eyes on him as he turns back to his dinner, but he refuses to look up. It is, he decides, of the utmost importance not to show fear. There's something snake-like about Holmes—a brilliant intellect with razor-sharp fangs coiled up and ready to strike at the slightest show of weakness. John will not give him that opportunity.
"Well," Holmes says softly, and John looks up to see long fingers curled around the top of the chair, "In that case…may I?"
"Sure," John shrugs, and Holmes pulls the chair back out and sits down. Actually, sitting isn't quite the right word; what he really does is drape himself over the chair, one arm slung over the back and legs splayed out in front of him. And suddenly, the mood changes, the tension dissipating into the air like steam. Holmes has gone from a snake tensed to strike to a cat lounging in the sun, and John can feel the muscles in his shoulders start to unclench.
"So," Holmes says suddenly, watching John closely from under his thick mop of hair, "Haven't made a lot of friends on the football team, then?"
John nearly chokes on his spinach. "I—what?"
The triumph that flashes through Holmes' eyes makes John instantly furious with himself. So much for not showing fear. "I knew that you played football from the first time we spoke," Holmes drawls, head dropping back to stare at the ceiling. "It follows naturally that you would go out for the team. Really, John, do try to keep up."
Trying feebly to regain his composure, John hides in a long gulp of water. He feels the icy blue eyes fixed on him and starts to wonder if this is some sort of test. If it is, he's not doing terribly well. There's something dreadfully startling about Holmes. A mere conversation is like walking up the stairs in the dark; John never knows whether or not there's going to be a solid step under his foot, a normal response that he can use to climb further into the conversation.
"I'm not an expert in these matters," Holmes begins nonchalantly, "But perhaps if you spent less time in your room talking to your girlfriend you'd make more friends."
John is suddenly very, very glad that he's already swallowed that mouthful of water. As it is, he does his very best to choke on air. Those solid steps of conversation have been yanked away, sending him plummeting through thin air with his heart in his mouth. For some bizarre reason, he feels his ears go very, very hot.
"Alright," he half-snarls, irritated by the stupid smug expression on Holmes' stupid face. "How on earth can you know about Sarah?"
Before Holmes even opens his mouth, John knows that he's about to feel very, very stupid. He's not supposed to show fear, he's not supposed to take the bait and let Holmes make a fool out of him. But he's feeling inexplicably thrown off and flustered, and the words just plop out like some kind of dreadful verbal diarrhea.
"The walls in the dorms are thin," Holmes shrugs. "I can hear you talking to her. Got a webcam, have you?"
His prediction was correct: John does, in fact, feel like a complete idiot. Or possibly like some sort of creature of sub-human intelligence. A bear, perhaps. Or maybe a troll. Yes, that seems right; next to tall, brilliant Sherlock Holmes, John is a small, bumbling troll. A small, bumbling troll with a bright red face and a fork clenched so tightly in one hand that he might be breaking the skin.
Replacing the fork on his plate with the utmost care, John doesn't look at Holmes as he speaks. "Yeah, I've got a webcam. Sarah's my girlfriend from back home. We talk on Skype every night." Regain composure. Take deep breaths. Don't let him see you squirm. Don't let the bastard win.
Nodding, Holmes leans his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. Those pale eyes go off somewhere beyond John's left shoulder, as though closely examining the blush-colored dust motes that float in the light of the setting sun. Watching him from under his brows, John seriously considers hating the guy. It would be pathetically easy; Holmes' creepy omniscience certainly hasn't won him many friends. John can't remember ever seeing the lanky boy even talking to anyone else, let alone engaging in the kind of camaraderie that would be considered 'hanging out.' It would be all too easy to go with the crowd and avoid Holmes like the plague. Life would certainly be a lot simpler that way.
Then again, Sherlock Holmes is by far the most interesting person John has met at this school. True, he's also the strangest, creepiest, rudest, and most obnoxious, but John supposes that's all part of the appeal. He certainly doesn't have much interest in spending all his time with clean-cut young men with short hair and well-pressed shirts. Nor is he terribly fascinated by his teammates, who (although perfectly nice blokes) don't really converse in words longer than 'chicken' and are basically plant life when compared with Sherlock Holmes.
Abruptly, Holmes breaks John out of his reverie. "What are your plans for tonight?"
"Um." John blinks, caught off guard. "Well, I've got some reading left to do for English, and then I was going to talk to Sarah for…a bit…" He falters under Holmes' unimpressed gaze. That troll feeling comes back again, and John has to struggle to push it to the back of his mind.
"I've got a project I'm working on," Holmes announces out of the blue, "And I require some assistance. Nothing terribly strenuous, you understand, but I believe that you are just the man for the job."
Once again, John finds himself floundering through thin air. A million excuses zip through his head: he'll have a quiz on tonight's reading tomorrow, he really ought to study some more for that maths test, and what on earth is he going to say to Sarah?
Strangely, all those words of reason haven't the slightest effect on his mouth; his voice, a bit strange and foreign-sounding, merely says: "Alright."
Holmes starts to get up, but pauses to fix John with a thoughtful look.
"The Great Gatsby, right?"
What? is John's first thought, quickly followed by: English homework. Right. That thing that I was worrying about ten seconds ago. He's getting worryingly distracted by that intense blue gaze.
"Yeah," he grunts, standing and picking up his tray.
"I'll tell you what happens," Holmes assures him with a quick, rakish smile. John would certainly never say that he's dazzled, but the lightning effect of that grin is rather stunning. So the man can actually smile, he thinks hazily.
"Leave the tray, John," Holmes orders brusquely, the smile completely vanished along with any hint that it was ever there. "Let's go."
"Hang on a second," John says quickly, nearly jogging to catch up with Holmes' long strides. "How d'you even know my name?"
A ghost of that roguish smile appears around the corners of Holmes' mouth as he leads the way out of the refectory.
"Don't be dull, John," he says coolly. "Come along."
Rolling his eyes, John hurries along beside the pale boy as they burst out into the chilly twilight of the castle courtyard. The bastard really does know everything, he thinks with a shake of his head.
"Oh, and by the way," Holmes adds, glancing at John out of the corners of his eyes, "You can call me Sherlock."
A surprised chuckle finds its way out of John's mouth before he can fully cover up his shock. Definitely a mind reader, then, he thinks firmly. As he follows a boy he met a week ago towards an unknown location so that he can help with some mysterious 'project' (which, although "not strenuous," could quite possibly involve bodily injury or emotional scarring), all he can think is: Well, this should be interesting.
AN: Beep boop, here's chapter two! John's head is such a funny little place; certainly not boring! Do feel free to leave me reviews, I'd love to know what everybody thinks so far. xxx