Chapter the Sixth
"Well, your trusted faculty has outdone itself once more," Sherlock announces as he slides into the seat opposite John at lunch a few days later. With a faint frown, John notes that Sherlock is tray-less once again; the last time he ate anything was breakfast yesterday. With eating habits like this, it's a wonder the boy doesn't look more like a holocaust victim.
"How was the faculty meeting, then?" John asks dryly, putting aside the food question for the moment. For a fraction of a second he thinks maybe he's managed to surprise Sherlock (his eyebrows twitch upwards just the tiniest bit, his eyes going slightly wider than usual), but then the usual expression of vaguely annoyed boredom returns.
"They didn't catch the test thief," he drawls, leaning back in his chair in his usual sprawl. "They recovered the test, and Jeffrey Davies is suspended until further notice, but the real criminal managed to run off between the rubbish bins. We handed them a perfect opportunity and, as usual, they managed to botch it."
"Oh, well," John shrugs, piercing a green bean with his fork. "At least they got the test. Sort of a shame about Davies, though; I didn't really mean for him to get in trouble."
"Oh, don't be so forgiving, John," Sherlock scoffs, running a hand through his disheveled curls. "The boy was trying to cheat on a test."
"Seems like a nice bloke, though," John says through a mouthful of bean. "S'not his fault he's a bit slow."
"You're hopeless," Sherlock groans. "No sense of justice whatsoever."
"I'm sorry that my sense of justice doesn't involve punishing hapless idiots who manage to get themselves seduced by a smart criminal," John snaps a bit more hotly than he meant to. "It's not fair for Davies to get suspended while the real troublemaker gets off scot-free."
Sitting back, he tries to calm himself down a bit. He's always gotten a bit too worked up about morals, but ever since he was a kid he's had a very strong sense of right and wrong. It's gotten him into trouble more than once and lost him a friend or two, but from the way Sherlock's looking at him now he figures he hasn't managed it this time. Lowering his eyes back to his lunch, he takes a few long breaths through his nose and tries to ignore the piercing blue gaze fixed on him from across the table.
"Well," Sherlock sniffs, and when John looks up he's diverted his gaze elsewhere. "Regardless, you are certainly the golden boy of the hour. The teachers talk about you like they want to give you a bloody medal or something."
"Oh, god, no," John laughs, and suddenly the tension dissipates. "What would they give me, anyway? Tattletale of the Year?"
"I rather agree that in the interest of your reputation it would certainly be better if they didn't award you," Sherlock smirks. "But our faculty has proven itself rather excellent at misjudging its own student body, so I wouldn't count out the possibility."
"Christ, can you imagine?" John chuckles. "No one would ever speak to me again. I gave them that tip on condition of anonymity, anyway."
"I'd still speak to you," Sherlock says rather stiffly, and there's a hint of that old awkwardness in his voice that John can't quite ignore.
"You'd better," John grins, doing his best to dispel the discomfort edging its way onto Sherlock's face. "It's all your fault for figuring it all out in the first place."
"I rather think you had an equal hand in it," Sherlock informs him, and John couldn't care less about Sherlock's awkwardness because holy mother of god, did he just compliment him? "I would say we were…partners in crime."
"Crime-solving, more like," John manages around the enormous grin that's taken over his face. The words equal and partners are still floating at the forefront of his mind, and he must have the most dreadfully vacant expression but at the moment he can't quite bring himself to care. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to him that he ought to be worried about the degree of elation Sherlock's approval has caused, but he decides to save that for later and savor his triumph for now.
"Do you have a free next?" Sherlock interrupts his internal rejoicing, looking the slightest bit taken aback at John's euphoric expression.
"Um, yeah," John nods, doing his best to snap out of it. "But you've got class, haven't you?"
"Only physical education," Sherlock shrugs, waving the very notion aside. "Easily skipped."
"Alright." John swallows the last mouthful of his chicken and looks up at Sherlock curiously. "Have you got another one of your plans?"
"Not particularly," Sherlock says airily. "I just feel like a bit of a walk."
"Okay," John says slowly, unsure of whether or not to be worried. "No hiding in cupboards this time?"
"No cupboards involved whatsoever," Sherlock assures him. When John remains unconvinced, he half-chuckles and adds, "Just a walk, John. I promise."
Their walk ends up taking them all the way across campus to the enormous cliffs that overlook the churning gray sea. The castle sits on something of a promontory that juts out into the wildest ocean John has ever seen. Not that he has an awful lot to compare it with; he went on a few seaside trips when he was younger, the frequency of which declined as his dad lost his job and his parents could stand to spend less and less time together. Anyway, all he can really remember of them is a rather grimy beach crowded with fat, sunburned people, many of whom he had to dodge while a grinning Harry chased him about with a dead jellyfish impaled on a stick.
"Astonishing, isn't it?"
John jerks out of his reverie to see Sherlock staring thoughtfully down at the chilly waves tearing hungrily at the cliff face. Shivering slightly, John pulls the collar of his blazer closer around his neck. The icy wind that swirls occasionally through the castle is even more biting out here as it races off the water. He can feel his extremities slowly starting to go numb.
"They think eventually the castle will fall into the sea," Sherlock says absently, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cardigan. "In several hundred years, of course. The water is slowly eroding the cliffs, and sooner or later it'll get to the castle foundations."
"That'd be something to see, wouldn't it?" John says, looking from the leaping waves below to the castle looming several hundred yards away. "All that stone and things, just…gone. Wow."
"Quite," Sherlock nods, slipping a cigarette between his lips and cupping his hands around it to light it. As he always does, he offers his half-empty pack to John, who shakes his head just as he always does. A year or so ago he nicked a cigarette from Harry, who smokes and drinks and does every other thing straight out of the problem child handbook. It made him cough so violently that he threw up and successfully cured him of any desire whatsoever to smoke. At sixteen, Sherlock is already a cigarette or two away from a full-fledged chain smoker, and to be frank that scares John pretty badly.
"You don't like that I smoke," Sherlock says abruptly, and John looks up to see those pale eyes regarding him closely. Shifting rather uncomfortably from foot to foot, he shrugs.
"Doesn't really bother me," he lies. "S'just not really my cup of tea. But there are worse things to do, I suppose."
"I've probably done most of them," Sherlock admits, expelling a thin stream of smoke from between his lips. Raising his eyebrows, John looks closely at Sherlock, trying to imagine him doing…what? He would never in a million years take the tall boy for a drug user, but that seems to be exactly what he's suggesting. Sure, John knew druggies aplenty at his old school, ranging from hardcore potheads to occasional ecstasy users, but Sherlock?
"What on earth have you done?" John asks incredulously, trying to keep a note of derision out of his voice. John's spent most of his life in state schools; what does this posh private school boy know about doing bad things?
"Oh, tried this and that," Sherlock says airily, waving one hand carelessly. "I occasionally find it pleasant to shut things off in here," he gestures towards his own head with his free hand, "For a while. I found most things rather unpleasant in the long term, though."
"Oh?" John raises an eyebrow, still rather inclined to disbelieve Sherlock's supposed debauchery. So maybe he's puffed on a joint or two, taken a pill or something at a club (though the idea of Sherlock at a club is really quite mind-boggling), but nothing serious…
"Cocaine isn't all it's cracked up to be, really," Sherlock shrugs, and John nearly chokes on air because what?
"C-cocaine?" he manages weakly, gaping at Sherlock's impassive face in astonishment. "You—really?" And then the unintentional pun of Sherlock's last statement sinks in, and John can't help but laugh.
"I don't see what's so funny, John," Sherlock huffs, taking a mildly miffed drag as John nearly doubles over with hysterical laughter.
"You don't get—cocaine, you know?" John gasps, attempting to form a coherent sentence in the face of Sherlock's unamused stare (which, of course, only serves to make the whole thing ten times funnier). "Cocaine isn't all it's cracked…get it, cracked? Cocaine? Crack? No? That wasn't—okay." After another moment or two, he manages to get himself under control and straighten up, shaking his head in amusement and wonder.
"I still can't believe—cocaine, Sherlock, really? Why would you do something like that?"
"You forget, John," Sherlock begins dryly, "That my family has altogether too much money and too little time to pay attention to what I get up to. Besides, I get bored.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, John," Sherlock groans at John's expression. "I went through a phase."
"You did coke because you were bored?" John says in astonishment, and okay, maybe he's goggling at Sherlock like he's never seen him before, but this is just beyond.
"That is what I said, yes," Sherlock snaps rather irritably. He takes another drag, blowing smoke out his nostrils like a skinny, fire-breathing dragon. "My brother put a stop to it quite quickly, however."
"Your brother?" John repeats. He's finding out an absolute treasure trove of Sherlock-information today; the boy is not usually this forthcoming. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"Mycroft, yes," Sherlock nods, his mouth pinching slightly like he's just tasted something sour. "He's off at university at the moment studying to be a despotic world leader or some such thing. He was, shall we say, less than pleased when he discovered my dabblings in the world of hard drugs. Our parents, of course, never found out, but needless to say I haven't touched any narcotics since."
"Some brother," John half-chuckles, shaking his head in amazement. The Holmes family is almost sounding more dysfunctional than his own. "I don't think my sister would notice if I started up a meth lab in the basement."
At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, he adds, "She's a bit…well, self-involved. I'm the good kid in the family, anyway. She goes to a lot of parties, and there's a lot of…well. Mum and Dad have started locking up their liquor bottles."
"She's older than you, is she?" Sherlock inquires. John nods, not even bothering to question how Sherlock knows. There's probably some perfectly brilliant explanation that he doesn't really feel like hearing at the moment. Talking about Harry has always made him a bit…well, touchy, especially after what happened last summer…
"She likes girls," he blurts out without really meaning to. "My sister, I mean. Last June I walked in on her with one of her girl friends." He swallows hard and notices Sherlock regarding him in an odd sort of way that he can't quite decipher.
"Not that I mind, really," John adds hastily. "I couldn't care less who she wants to snog. It's just…well, it was a bit of a shock, finding out like that. Turned out she'd got a girlfriend and had been hiding it from all of us." He shrugs, kicking listlessly at a tuft of grass at the edge of the cliff.
"Mum and Dad still don't know. She made me swear to keep it secret. We used to be really close, you know, when we were kids, but lately with the parties and the girlfriend and everything…" He lets out a long breath, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him. "Well, that's just growing up, isn't it?"
Trying for a smile, he looks up and sees that Sherlock's still looking at him with that odd, undecipherable expression. The wind's started to pick up, howling across the grassy cliff tops and straight into John's bones. With a faint spark of amusement, he notes that Sherlock's already-impossible hair is being blown into a veritable haystack, stray wisps sticking out in every direction and wreathed in a ragged cloud of cigarette smoke.
"Come on," the taller boy says abruptly, dropping his cigarette into the grass, grinding it out under his heel, and turning to walk along the cliff's edge. Rather bemused, John follows him, keeping a careful distance between his black leather shoes and the sharp drop towards the sea.
"Where are we going?" he asks, quickening his pace to catch up with Sherlock's long strides.
"Well, we can't very well stand about on the cliff top for hours, can we?" Sherlock says briskly, adjusting the blue cashmere scarf knotted loosely around his neck. "I'm going to show you something."
John's not quite sure whether to be excited or terrified, but before he can decide on either Sherlock stops short and leans dangerously close to the cliff's edge. Peering over his shoulder, John can make out rough steps cut into the pale stone of the cliff.
"That's cool," John observes, shoving his hands into his blazer pockets. "Where do they go?"
"We're going to find out, now aren't we?" That funny, rakish sort of grin appears on Sherlock's face as he sets one foot down onto the top step.
"Um, Sherlock-" John begins to protest, but the pale boy is already making his way down the narrow steps. "Oh, Christ," John mutters, and follows him.
Aside from being small, uneven, and roughly hewn, it turns out that the steps cut into the cliff face are quite slippery as well. Slick with sea spray and last night's rain, they feel about as secure under John's feet as blocks of half-melted ice. At any moment he expects to make a wrong move and go tumbling down the impossibly steep stairway, taking Sherlock with him as he falls to an undoubtedly nasty death on the pointy rocks jutting out of the sea below.
But shockingly, it never happens, and thanks to the occasional handholds hewn into the rock and sheer white-knuckled terror, John manages to make it to the bottom. The steps, it turns out, stop just a few feet short of the ocean at an enormous, flat rock that juts out into the churning waves. John steps shakily from the last step onto the sea-slick rock and looks up into Sherlock's delighted face.
"This is brilliant," Sherlock grins, facing out towards the vast, grey ocean. With the wind tugging at his hair and scarf and the spray misting his pale face, he looks like some sort of mad god, or quite possibly some bizarre nymph risen straight from the sea (in a boy's prep school uniform, for some inexplicable reason).
"Yeah, great," John shivers, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. The wind blows even harder down here, and the clammy seawater clinging to his skin does nothing to help.
"This allows for easy access to the beach," Sherlock declares excitedly, hurrying to the rock's edge and looking across to the small strip of pebbles between the bottom of the cliff and the hungry waves.
"You call that easy?" John says weakly, but Sherlock ignores him.
"The kind of observations that could be made down here…god, just imagine the tide pools!"
John's about to reply that he'd really rather not, thank you very much, but before he can get out a word Sherlock's stretching one foot out across frothing seawater towards the nearest rock.
"Sherlock, what are you—have you gone completely barking?" John demands, horror swelling in the pit of his stomach.
"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, John," Sherlock scoffs, managing to plant his foot on the rock. His legs are spread so far that he's practically doing the splits—but, of course, over several feet of icy seawater. "I'm just making my way to that beach. It is a simple matter of shifting my weight from one foot to-" He pushes off his back foot, and for one heart-stopping second John thinks he's managed it. But then his front foot slips on the slick stone, and John can practically see his weight swing backwards like a pendulum. Only this time, there is no foot there to support him, and so with a flurry of flailing limbs, Sherlock falls.
AN: Cliffhanger! I'm terribly mean about these, but the next bit will posted soon, I promise. Be lovely and leave me reviews! 3