Chapter the Fifth
Squinting in the sudden brightness, John looks up into the wide eyes of an extremely surprised first-year. Swallowing hard, he attempts desperately to come up with some kind of plausible excuse, but to no avail. Fortunately, the day is saved by Sherlock, who speaks up just before the silence becomes completely awkward.
"Oh, thank god," he exclaims, letting out an enormous sigh of relief. "I thought we were going to be in here all night. Thank you so much."
"What happened?" the first-year inquires, dark eyes going even wider.
"We were putting away our mops after cleaning duty," Sherlock explains, and John can't help but goggle up at him because he actually sounds like a normal person and not some kind of bizarre, sarcastic robot. "Some bastard came up behind us and shoved us in here. Sick kind of practical joke if you ask me."
"How long were you in there?" the first-year asks in astonishment as John gets stiffly to his feet.
"Oh, only a minute or two," Sherlock shrugs, making a show of looking over the first-year's shoulder at the empty hallway. "He must have run off, I don't see him."
"That's really awful," the first-year frowns, opening the door all the way so that John and Sherlock can stagger out of the cupboard. "People ought not to do things like that."
"Well, I'm glad you found us," John says with a rather strained smile, restacking the buckets and kicking the door shut behind him. "Thanks, uh…"
"Jim," the first-year supplies with a toothy grin. "Jim Moriarty."
"Nice to meet you," Sherlock nods. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, I know," Jim says airily. Sherlock frowns, a little taken aback, as the rather diminutive boy turns to John and says, "And you are…?"
"John Watson," John says, meeting Sherlock's eye. There is something rather strange about this kid, though he can't quite say what exactly it is. Whatever it may be, though, it's making him kind of nervous.
"Well, thanks again, mate," John says abruptly, forcing another smile at the dark-haired boy. "We should, erm, be getting back to our dorm. Uh, see you around, though."
"Sure," Jim nods, a faint smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. Exchanging another glance with Sherlock, John turns and starts off down the hallway rather more rapidly than he meant to. Sherlock matches his fast pace easily, and in a moment the two of them reach the door at the end of the corridor. Sherlock pushes past it quickly, but John can't help but glance over his shoulder. What he sees makes his shoulders tense: Jim Moriarty is still standing in the exact same spot, staring straight at him. That tiny smile is still lingering on his lips.
"John?" Sherlock calls from outside, and John turns away and steps out into the cool night with a slight shudder. The sun has fully set by now, and there's a sharp chill hanging in the air. It's a clear night, and overhead the velvet sky is pierced by thousands of stars.
"A rather successful investigation altogether, I think," Sherlock observes as they start off across campus towards the castle. "Aside from a few minor mishaps, that is."
"Mm, right," John yawns, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands. All of a sudden, he's completely exhausted; his watch is showing ten past ten, and a day of class, football practice, and mad mystery-solving has really taken it out of him. He remains silent as they reach the castle and climb the three flights of stairs to their dorm hallway. They've already missed curfew, but at the moment John couldn't care less. All that matters now is a nice, warm bed and a soft pillow to lay his head on…
"Come on, John," Sherlock whispers, glancing left and right for hall monitors before pulling open the door to his room. At John's perplexed stare, he adds, "I promised to tell you what happens in your reading."
Reading…what reading? John thinks sleepily, blinking at Sherlock, who sighs in exasperation.
"The Great Gatsby, John. Remember? What you were supposed to read for English tomorrow?"
"Right, yeah," John mumbles, following Sherlock into his room, which is still (surprise, surprise) freakishly tidy. "Your room is so clean," he observes thickly, and then frowns. He hadn't quite meant to say that aloud.
"My father was an army man," Sherlock explains shortly, a faint wrinkle creasing the space between his brows. "He brought us up to keep things neat. If my room was untidy…well. He was displeased." A faint shadow passes over his face as he turns away from John to straighten a stack of books on his bedside table.
"Sit down if you like," he says over his shoulder, waving absently at the bed. His voice sounds odd, but John complies anyway. After toeing off his shoes, he pulls his knees up to his chin and watches Sherlock fiddle with various things around the room, correcting crooked belongings like an obsessive compulsive. A few moments pass, and then John clears his throat, which startles Sherlock out of his tidying fit.
Leaning on his dresser, he looks at John and says, "So. What chapters were you supposed to read?"
John tells him, and without a moment's thought Sherlock launches into a long explanation. And John does his best to listen, he really does, but after a few minutes Nick and Daisy and Gatsby all begin to blur together and Sherlock's low voice becomes nothing but a soothing sort of rumble in the background. His eyes start to droop, and Sherlock interrupts himself with a quiet chuckle. Before he knows what's happening, John feels gentle hands pushing him backwards onto the bed and tucking a pillow beneath his head. And he thinks maybe he should try and protest, but now the room's gone dark and this pillow is awfully soft and Sherlock's presence is sort of reassuring even though he's all the way on the other side of the room.
The last thing John remembers before he falls asleep is the quiet murmur of violin music.
He wakes up to the beep of an alarm clock and a paper cup of tea on the bedside table. Blinking, he shuts off the alarm and looks suspiciously at the tea. He doesn't remember it being there last night. And what certainly wasn't there is the handwritten note stuck underneath the cup. Lifting the tea, he picks up the note and runs his eye over it. The names Nick, Daisy, and Gatsby float out of the slanted script, and with a jolt John realizes it's a summary of the chapters he should have read last night.
Yawning, he sits all the way up, taking a sip of the tea as he reads the note. He'll study it in more depth when he's more awake, but for now he's more interested in the hasty postscript scrawled at the very end.
Have set alarm for six thirty. Hope this is early enough. Don't forget to go to headmaster today about test. Make up some kind of intelligent story. –Sherlock
John doesn't quite know whether to be insulted that Sherlock felt the need to tell him to make up an intelligent excuse or flattered that the taller boy considers him capable of doing so. Shrugging, he takes another sip of tea and decides not to bother with either. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he takes stock of the room, which is flooded with pale dawn light but completely lacking in Sherlock. At some point in the night John must have gotten under the covers, because they've gotten hopelessly tangled round his waist.
As he extricates himself from Sherlock's sheets, he wonders vaguely where their proper owner slept last night—or if, in fact, he slept at all. He resolves to ask him later and climbs out of bed, still balancing his cup of tea in one hand and Sherlock's note in the other. Yawning again, he slips his feet into his shoes, cracks open the door, and slips out into the deserted hallway. Noiselessly, he opens the door to his own room and finds it empty as well, Lestrade having presumably gone to brush his teeth. Shutting the door behind him, John allows himself a sigh of relief; he'd really rather not have to explain where he slept last night to his roommate, especially at this hour. He changes out of his rumpled uniform into a somewhat fresher one, slings his book bag over his shoulder, and goes off to breakfast.
In the refectory, he slides into the seat opposite Sherlock without a word. Looking up from his tray, the other boy acknowledges him with a nod before going back to his toast. John swallows several mouthfuls of oatmeal before pausing to contemplate the dark-haired boy sitting across from him. Sherlock's eyes are sharp as always, but the faint shadows underneath them seem to have grown darker.
"Thanks for the tea," John says quietly, lowering his eyes back to his own tray.
"Mm," Sherlock grunts by way of reply, and John can't help but smile into his oatmeal.
After breakfast, they walk to class together. They sit together at lunch and dinner as well. John does his homework lying on the floor of Sherlock's room while the pale boy sits on the windowsill and smokes a cigarette. Just before curfew, John returns to his own room, and it's only once he's lying safe and sound in his bed that he realizes that he never found out where Sherlock slept last night.
AN: Well, hello. It's been quite a long time, hasn't it? Sorry about the massive delay, but I hope this little teaser of a chapter helps whet your appetites, because I've got lots more updates to post! Be lovely and leave me reviews, if you please. 3