Chapter the Fourth
John would not be lying if he said that he's spent more exciting evenings than this. Exciting and interesting, however, are not the same thing, and so while there are more thrilling things than watching Sherlock Holmes run up and down several flights of stairs, John doubts that many of them are quite as fascinating.
A bit too fascinating altogether, John thinks uncomfortably as Sherlock's dark head disappears into the stairwell for the fourth time. Because despite his aversion to manual labor and his complete lack of interest in sports of any kind, Sherlock is surprisingly quick, and graceful to boot. He doesn't so much run as surge, every lanky limb and wiry curl leaping forwards towards his goal. Which, at the moment, is the lonely rock sitting atop the bench in the little garden in the center of the courtyard.
Glancing out the window, John watches Sherlock screech to a halt beside the aforementioned bench and steady himself against it to catch his breath. After a moment, he turns to walk back the way he came. Frowning, John looks down at his watch and shakes his head. For all his impossible whirlwind speed, it still took Sherlock four minutes to get from the second floor of the dorm to the bench in the grove. That means eight minutes round trip, plus the two or so minutes they've allowed for spotting the satchel and formulating a plan, as well as another two or three to actually steal the thing…making a total of thirteen minutes for the total crime. Impossible.
"Still too long," John informs the panting, slightly flushed Sherlock who's just emerged from the stairwell. "He can't be on this floor. The stairs take too long."
"Excellent," Sherlock huffs, still managing to crack an all-knowing smile through his breathlessness. Vaguely, John wonders if the boy could contrive to look smug while surrounded by extremely hungry crocodiles. He sort of thinks he could manage it.
"Sherlock," John says abruptly, shaking himself out of the quick bout of daydreaming he's just drifted into, "Are athletes exempt from first-year study hall?"
"Hm?" Sherlock blinks at him, and John's stomach suddenly surges with pride at knowing something that Sherlock Holmes doesn't.
"It just occurred to me," John shrugs. "Sports teams practice from five to seven. By the time they change clothes and get back to the dorm, first-years' study time is as good as over."
And John must be dreaming, because right now Sherlock is actually looking at him like he's just said something helpful, or possibly, dare he presume, intelligent. Surely at some point in the last few minutes he must have gotten hit over the head with something heavy, because the kind of admiration swelling in Sherlock's pale eyes could only be some sort of hallucination.
"Brilliant, John," Sherlock says quietly, and John blinks like a startled bat and tries not to smile. "Absolutely brilliant." An enormous grin breaks out across Sherlock's face as he turns away from John and starts back down the stairs. "So now we can eliminate the entire second floor," his voice floats up the dark stairwell, "And every athlete on the first. Well done, John."
"Thanks," John mumbles, smiling idiotically down at his shoes as he follows Sherlock down the stairs.
"Oh, we're getting close!" Sherlock exclaims gleefully, practically capering out into the first floor hallway. "Now it's only a matter of getting into these rooms and seeing which of them have a clear view of that boulder."
"Only?" John echoes incredulously. "How, exactly, do you propose we do that? There must be people in half these rooms by now."
"We need some sort of ruse," Sherlock says thoughtfully, tugging absently on a stray curl. John sees those pale blue eyes go somewhere very far away and quietly resigns himself to another bout of waiting for Sherlock to think. Despite the speed with which the gears in that dark head must turn, Sherlock seems to lose himself in his own mind for rather prolonged periods.
This, it seems, is not one of them, for after just a few moments Sherlock straightens up with a faint noise of triumph.
"Cleaning duty!"
"Cleaning duty?" John repeats, and instantly curses himself for the idiotic tone his voice has taken. He really needs to stop being quite so bewildered.
"Like detention, but useful," Sherlock nods, hurrying off down the hallway in a businesslike fashion. "Essentially, school service as punishment. You have to clean hallways and classroom-"
"I know what cleaning duty is, Sherlock," John interrupts, more in the interest of efficiency than any kind of irritation. "But they don't make you go into people's rooms. I think cleaning first year dorm rooms counts as cruel and unusual punishment."
"John, no one would be surprised if I managed to incur such a penalty," Sherlock says with a faint, grim smile. "This may come as a shock to you, but I am not exactly popular with the faculty of this school."
"Really? Never would've guessed." John rolls his eyes. "Well, if you're sure no one will think it's odd…"
"Trust me," Sherlock chuckles, "No one will even ask."
He stops short in front of an innocuous door, which when opened proves to be a closet full of rubber gloves, buckets, mops, and other such cleaning supplies. As if it's the most natural thing in the world, Sherlock yanks on a pair of gloves and starts pulling out the necessary items for their disguise.
"Am I supposedly a troublemaker, too?" John asks with a half-smile as Sherlock struggles with the tangled strands of a mop. "Or are you going this one alone?"
"More efficient if we both do it," Sherlock grunts, finally succeeding in freeing the mop. "You take the first ten rooms, I'll take the other ten."
"Right, okay," John nods, glancing around the open closet door. After a pause, he says, "Um. Sherlock. Is it just me, or does that guy have no reason to be here?"
"Hm?" Frowning, Sherlock leans around John to look down the hallway at the furtive, stocky boy who's just come through the door.
"I think I know him," John murmurs. "Second-year, isn't he? I recognize him from football tryouts. Davis or something. He wasn't a bad kicker, but a bit too slow."
"In more than one way," Sherlock adds dryly. "That's Jeffrey Davies. He's a second-year alright, but he's been held back in almost all his classes. The school can't kick him out because his father's a big petrol man and on the board of trustees besides."
"So…he's taking biology for the second time," John says slowly, "Isn't the brightest bulb in the drawer, has a rich father, and looks sneaky enough to rob a bank?"
"Get in the closet," Sherlock hisses, and John turns round to stare at him in astonishment because what in god's name does that have to do with anything?
"Wha-" John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off in an urgent whisper.
"He hasn't seen us yet, and he must be here about the biology test. If we eavesdrop, we might be able to use him to find the test thief."
"In the closet?" John says dubiously, but by the stubborn set of Sherlock's jaw it's clear the taller boy has had enough. Without another word, he starts pushing John into the musty depths of the closet. Stumbling backwards like a drunkard, John can barely find his footing before Sherlock slips in with him and closes the door behind him. Everything goes dark except for the thin sliver of light where Sherlock's left the door ajar.
"Christ," John mutters under his breath, trying to shift slightly without knocking anything over. This closet was pretty full in the first place, and with the addition of two bodies it's become downright cramped. The darkness is uncomfortably warm and rather dusty, and it smells of dishwashing detergent.
"Quiet," Sherlock shushes him, peering through the crack in the door. From where he's standing (pressed up against a stack of buckets and sandwiched between Sherlock and several brooms), John can just make out Davies' dark figure making its nervous way down the hallway. With a jolt, John realizes that he's headed straight towards them, one hand lazily trailing along the wall mere yards from the door of their closet. And what on earth will they say if they're found? Quite frankly, John decides, there is no good explanation for why the two of them are hiding in a cleaning cupboard. Eavesdropping sounds improbable and creepy besides, and the alternative…well. John feels his ears go slightly warm with the thought. The last way he wants to start off this school year is being caught in a closet with another bloke, even if they are just trying to find a stolen biology test. He could never explain that one to Sarah.
John feels his heart leap into his throat as Davies moves ever closer, that dangling hand now less that a meter from the closet door. Any minute now, that door is going to be pulled open and they're going to be caught, and John will never, ever live this one down…and then Davies passes by. Hardly daring to believe his luck, John listens intently to the heavy footsteps as they move away from the door—and then stop. Slowly, they move backwards, and John practically bites through his lip as a hand closes around the edge of the open door.
And then the door shuts. Stunned, John blinks slowly in the sudden darkness as beside him Sherlock hisses a near-silent curse word. Squinting, John can just make out the boy's pale face pinching into a frown, nose pressed against the unyielding door. John's heart drops from his throat into the pit of his stomach as he realizes that there's no handle on the inside.
"Dammit," Sherlock breathes, pressing the side of his face to the door. "Now we can't see where he's going."
"Are you mad?" John hisses. "Who cares? We're locked in a cleaning cupboard, Sherlock!"
"Hush," Sherlock orders, and in spite of himself John does. There's fear and frustration boiling in the back of his throat, but he tries to push it all back down and listen to Davies' footsteps moving down the hallway. Suddenly, they stop, and John holds his breath as he hears a quick knock and the faint squeak of a door opening.
"I'm here about the test," Davies' low voice rumbles, and wow, Sherlock was right about him being thick. "The biology one. I brought my money and everythi-"
"What are you doing?" another voice half-yelps, cutting him off. "You can't come here! I don't keep it here, you idiot!"
"How do I get my answers, then?" Davies asks slowly, and even through the dark John can make out Sherlock's grin. This is just too easy.
"I told you, idiot," the second voice snaps. "Wednesday morning at six o'clock, behind the refectory by the garbage bins. Do you want me to write that down for you or do you think you can manage to remember it this time?"
"No, I've got it," Davies replies amiably, completely ignoring the biting sarcasm of the question. "Thanks, mate."
"Get out of here," the voice snarls, and then there's the snap of the door closing. Humming some faint (and off-key, John notes with a wince) pop song to himself, Davies makes his slow way back up the hallway, past the cupboard and out the door. A few silent seconds pass before John allows himself to breathe easy again.
"This is brilliant!" Sherlock whispers, and John looks up to see his pale eyes shining triumphantly out of the darkness. "We'll wait for them behind the refectory Wednesday morning and catch them in the act-"
"No, Sherlock," John cuts him off firmly. "We'll tell the teachers to wait for them behind the refectory Wednesday morning and they'll catch them in the act." At Sherlock's expression, he corrects himself: "I'll tell the teachers."
"You have no sense of adventure, John," Sherlock sniffs.
"I'm in this bloody closet with you, aren't I?" John replies with something that's almost a chuckle. "I think this is enough of an adventure for quite a while, thank you."
"Very well," Sherlock sighs. "Although I think you have entirely too much faith that our faculty will in fact succeed in catching the thief."
"They'll do it," John says with about twice as much confidence as he actually feels. "They're teachers. They know what they're doing."
At that, Sherlock actually laughs, his shoulders bumping into John's as they shake. "Ah, young John," he chuckles, shaking his head. "So naïve. But have it your way; we'll go to the headmaster just as soon as we…" He trails off, his laughter fading.
"Get out of this closet?" John supplies helpfully, unable to keep a trace of maliciousness out of his voice. "How, exactly, do you propose we do that?"
"There must be some sort of handle mechanism on this side," Sherlock mutters, jostling John slightly as he leans down to peer at the door. It is only then that John realizes just how cramped this closet is; his entire body is practically pressed up against Sherlock's, and it seems that the boy's every bony joint and gangly limb is tangled up with John's own. Matters are not helped by Sherlock bending over, which only serves to press John further back into the stack of buckets. Fighting to keep painful bucket handles from dislocating his spine, John somehow manages to lurch forwards and bury his face in Sherlock's ribcage with a muffled "oomph."
"John?" Sherlock murmurs, and this is very odd because John can actually feel his voice vibrating in his lungs. Everything feels sort of strange and surreal, from the soft cotton of Sherlock's cardigan to the faint scent of laundry detergent, cigarettes, and old paper that's radiating from Sherlock and wait a second, why is John's heart racing like this?
"John," Sherlock says again, and now his tone has gone from confusion to alarm. With another muffled grunt John struggles to straighten up and remove his face from Sherlock's side, but what he actually does is fall backwards and knock over the stack of buckets with a deafening clang.
When the immense clamor of metal against the stone floor subsides, John finds himself lying in a heap on the ground, a broom across his chest and a bucket under his head. He sees Sherlock's bemused face peering down at him and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get out a word the closet door opens.
AN: Muahaha, hope you all like this cliffhanger. Please stay lovely and leave me reviews!