Chapter the Eighth
It all starts when John decides to steal a cup. Well, not steal, not really. Just…borrow. It's not like he's going to sell it off or sneak it into his luggage to take home; he just wants a glass of water to keep on his bedside table at night. He's found it helps to calm him down when he wakes up from one of his nightmares, which have been getting more and more frequent lately.
He dreams about plunging into icy depths and diving towards Sherlock, who's sinking down into the infinite darkness at the bottom of the ocean. Inevitably, John begins to float inexorably upwards, and no matter how violently he struggles, Sherlock's lifeless hand slips from his grasp. He wakes up just before he breaks the surface, gasping for breath and drenched with sweat.
Or sometimes he's back in his house on a sunny Sunday afternoon, looking about aimlessly for something or other (sometimes it's a jumper, sometimes his mobile charger, sometimes his football uniform). On a whim, he opens the door to Harry's room and finds her on her bed, straddling—not Clara, her girlfriend, but Sarah, her blond hair splayed in a careless halo around her head. The two of them look up and laugh at him as he stumbles backwards out of the room, their faces cruel and malicious. He wakes up with his heart pounding, and it takes a moment or two for him to remember that it's not real.
The strangest one of all is when he dreams about a different kind of water; not grey and salty like the sea, but cool and clean and faintly blue, smooth and placid under cold lights. And then all of a sudden there's an enormous force bearing down on him, forcing him beneath the water's surface and down, down into bottomless depths. Lungs burning, he tries to struggle against it, but there are strong arms wrapped around him and something dark and heavy restricting his movement, and so he can only look helplessly up at the flames bursting above the water's surface overhead. He wakes up with the smell of chlorine in his nostrils, wondering what the hell is the matter with him.
Regardless of the nightmare, it's always reassuring to have that glass of water within reach, to drink from or press against his feverish forehead. To remind him what reality is.
But it has to be a glass. Paper cups just don't cut it; they're too flimsy and make the water taste funny besides. The refectory has glasses, and so he decides to steal one. Well, not steal it; just borrow it and return it at the end of term. Perfectly simple.
Perhaps he's been spending too much time with Sherlock lately, but he finds it surprisingly easy to snatch a glass. He considers hiding it underneath his shirt, but in the end decides it's much easier to just walk out with it in one hand, acting for all the world as if he's got every right to have it. And so that is exactly what he does: one afternoon after football practice, he goes into the mostly empty refectory, fills up a glass of water, and walks right out the front door with it. He sort of thinks Sherlock would be proud.
Once outside, however, he decides to err on the side of caution and go round the back of the building to drink his water. When it's empty, he reasons, he can just dangle the glass casually by his side (and fake complete absent-minded innocence if caught). Leaning against one of the enormous rubbish bins, he takes a long sip of water and lets himself relax slightly. It's been a long, long day; he had a test in math and an in-class essay in Latin, not to mention an unusually cold, wet football practice. It rained again last night, and the days are getting shorter and chillier as fall melts away into winter. Soon, he thinks, all this rain will turn to snow, which will be quite a sight. A faint smile drifts onto his face at the thought of a snowy winter, a phenomenon that he never got to experience in London. God, he'd love to see Sherlock in a snowball fight…
He's jerked rudely out of his reverie when someone taps him sharply on the shoulder. Shit, he thinks faintly, and prepares his most innocent, oh-I'm-so-sorry-I-just-needed-a-bit-of-air-I'll-take-the-glass-right-back-inside expression. But he doesn't even get a chance to use it, because the instant that he turns around, someone punches him in the face.
The glass shatters on the pavement as he stumbles backwards and collides with one of the rubbish bins with a clang. Hands instinctively guarding his head, he struggles to right himself and get a good look at his assailant. When he lowers his hands, his stomach drops. Make that assailants; there are at least six of them, all tall, strapping boys with short hair, well-pressed shirts, and singularly unpleasant expressions.
Rubbing his hand, the boy closest to John takes a step towards him, an ugly smirk spreading across his face. John thinks maybe he recognizes him from the form above him; that pale, pinched face seems oddly familiar. Andrews, he thinks his name might be. Anders. Something like that.
"This is a little warning for you, mate," whatever-his-name-is sneers, and with a jolt John realizes that he's rolling up his sleeves. "We won't tolerate any bloody queers at this school."
"What are you-" John tries to say, but he's interrupted when the older boy punches him in the stomach. Slumping back against the rubbish bins, he faintly hears someone shout something like grab him, and almost instantly there are hands tugging roughly at his arms, pushing and shoving him about like he's a rag doll. Blindly, he stumbles forward, trying to catch his breath.
"I don't…I don't know what you're talking about," he gasps, trying to see through the red mist rising behind his eyes. Blurry shapes all around him confirm his fears: he's surrounded. Then, without warning, fire rockets up and down his spine as a hard, pointy shoe connects with his back. Grunting in pain, he starts to fall forwards but is swiftly knocked back by an uppercut to the eye.
"Don't think no one knows," a voice calls out gloatingly, and all in a flash John remembers the smirking boy's name. Anderson. "We're not stupid, despite what your boyfriend might think."
"What are you talking about?" John snarls, straightening up and wiping something that he desperately hopes isn't blood out of his eyes. They're closing in, all of them, fists up and grinning murder in their eyes. And now he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what's going on, but he's not planning on letting on any time soon. Let Anderson come out and say it.
"You're buggering Sherlock Holmes," Anderson declares, and when John whirls around to face him something very much like a fist collides with the side of his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he staggers sideways but manages to stay on his feet.
"You're lying," he spits, and something that is definitely blood lands on Anderson's gleaming shoes.
Disgust twisting his thin lips, Anderson nods almost imperceptibly at one of his comrades. Before John can turn to defend himself, a foot collides with the backs of his knees, and with another grunt of pain he falls to the ground.
"It's pretty obvious, really," John dimly hears Anderson sneer as another foot connects with his ribcage. "The way you two go around together…it's sickening, that's what it is. Some first-year said he found you two in a closet together. Really fucking classy, mate."
Completely befuddled, his mind says, Jim? Shit, just before someone else kicks him in the stomach. Groaning, he curls into a defensive ball as what feels like a shower of rock-filled shoes pours down onto every inch of his body. Through the pummeling, he sees Anderson kneel down beside him, his grin growing still crueler.
"So tell me," he whispers during a brief pause in the rain of blows. "How much is he paying you?"
And that is Anderson's mistake. Because in that moment, the red-hot pain permeating every fiber of John's body is replaced by pure, white rage. He barely even registers the spinning in his head as he sits up, or the throbbing in his arms when he launches himself forward, or the agonizing blow that shudders through him when he crashes into Anderson and brings him to the ground. In some other world, people around him are shouting and running towards him, but all that matters right now is pummeling the living daylights out of Anderson's stupid, privileged, bastard, lying face.
He doesn't get more than four blows in before rough hands drag him off and fling him face-first to the pavement, which, as he is now painfully aware, is covered with razor-sharp glass shards. Something like an animal howl of pain and fury finds its way out of his mouth as he struggles to get to his feet (to get away from the broken glass or continue hitting Anderson or possibly both; he's not quite sure).
But someone pushes him back down, and through blood-streaked vision he can see Anderson standing up slowly, head cradled in both hands. He mutters something to his cronies, and it's not long before John's being showered with blows once more. This time, however, he quickly goes numb, his brain shutting itself down to shield itself from the oceans of pain flooding his nerves. He feels his eyes go dull and glassy, and although he's curled into a tiny ball, kicking him means about as much as beating a stuffed animal. He barely feels anything anymore; he barely even knows who he is. Reality fades as he enters a strange, silent, empty world.
When he comes to, he's alone. There's nothing out here but him, the rubbish bins, the cold pavement, and the fading light of the setting sun. Swallowing weakly, he tries to push himself up on his forearms but has to pause as a wave of nausea washes over him. When that passes, he barely takes a breath before he's consumed by an enormous, chest-wracking bout of hacking. Drops of crimson spatter onto the pavement with every cough.
Wiping the blood and spit from his mouth with the back of one hand, he tries to push himself up further, only to slip and crash back to the pavement with a small, wounded cry like that of an injured animal. To his enormous shame, tears spring into his eyes at the sheer pain rocketing through him. His stomach, ribs, head, and back are throbbing dully, and there's raw, immediate stinging where glass has pierced his hands, arms, knees, and face. And then there's blood in his mouth and blood in his eyes and blood all over his hands and what's probably blood dripping from his nose and oh, god, how is he ever going to stand up, how is he ever going to get out of here-
"John?"
With considerable difficulty, John manages to raise his head just enough to see one scuffed leather shoe, one heavy ankle boot, and…crutches. Oh, god. He's not sure whether to be relieved or anxious, or whether he can even feel anything anymore other than pain. Of its own accord, his head slumps back to the ground with a rather sickening thud, and he thinks maybe he hears Sherlock draw in a very short, very sharp breath.
And then a clatter echoes across the icy pavement, and John raises his eyes to see Sherlock's crutches fallen in a heap on the ground. Before he can speak, can protest, can ask Sherlock what the hell do you think you're doing you're going to fracture your ankle again pick those crutches up this instant, there are slim, warm arms sliding beneath him and lifting him up and pressing him close to a slim, warm chest.
"Sh-sherlock," he manages weakly as Sherlock begins to walk slowly forwards, grim determination written all over his face. "Your ankle, Sherlock…what're you…where are you…your ankle…"
"Has been coddled for far too long," Sherlock says firmly, shifting John slightly in his arms. "It will be fine. We're not going far, anyway."
"Don't be…s-stupid," John says thickly, struggling to speak through the blood in his mouth. "Y'can't carry me…"
"I think I'm doing quite well so far," Sherlock says briskly. "You're lighter than you think, John. Nearly there now."
Blinking blearily around him, John realizes that they're inside now, making their slow way through the deserted stone passageways of the castle. Dimly, he's sort of surprised that he didn't notice when they entered the building, but on the other hand he's feeling sort of out of it and besides, being held in Sherlock's arms and pressed against his chest is proving a bit more distracting than it should be. With a faint sigh, he lets his head drop sideways onto Sherlock's shoulder, which although rather bony makes a pretty good headrest.
"Nearly there," Sherlock repeats quietly, as much to himself as to John. After another minute or two, Sherlock turns sideways and shoulders open a door that leads into an empty, ringing room with white porcelain tiles covering the walls. Gingerly, Sherlock lowers John to the floor, which proves to be covered with tile as well.
"Sherlock," John says slowly, trying to find a way to frown that doesn't hurt, "Sherlock, why am I in a bathroom?"
"First-floor lavatory," Sherlock corrects him, straightening up. "It was closest. I'll be right back," he adds, heading back towards the door. "Stay here."
"Where am I gonna go?" John mutters, but Sherlock's already gone. Pillowing his head on one arm, he closes his eyes and takes slow, deep breaths until the strange, woozy feeling starts to fade from his head. By the time Sherlock returns, he's feeling a bit more like himself.
"Don't sit up," Sherlock orders hastily as John tries to raise his head. "Just…stay there. I've got a first aid kit," he adds, showing John the white case in his hand before setting it down on the floor and prying it open. John considers asking where he got it but decides he'd really rather not know.
"Let me see your hands," Sherlock orders, a kind note in his voice that John can't quite ignore. Obediently, he raises his hands, which Sherlock pulls gently into his lap. It's only then that John sees the tweezers in Sherlock's fingers and grits his teeth in preparation for more pain. Fortunately, Sherlock is incredibly, impossibly gentle, almost to the point of tenderness, and so John barely even winces each time a shard of glass leaves his skin.
From his hands, Sherlock moves on to his forearms, which are also studded with glass. It's only after he's dabbed off the blood and dabbed on a bit of hydrogen peroxide that he looks into John's eyes and asks, "Who did this?"
"Some…guys," John says evasively, faintly troubled by the steely look in Sherlock's eyes.
"Who, John?" Sherlock repeats, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.
"Anderson," John blurts out without meaning to. "And…some other guys I didn't know," he adds uselessly, but there's already a cold fury burning in Sherlock's eyes.
"Anderson," he says slowly, the syllables tinkling into place like ice. And in that pale, fine-boned face, John can see the thousand and five cruel, painful deaths being plotted for Anderson in Sherlock's vast, churning mind.
"Anderson," Sherlock says again, his voice growing still quieter as he gets to his feet. Apprehension swelling in his stomach, John watches Sherlock pull a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser and dampen them in the sink. After a moment or two of staring broodingly down the drain, he kneels back down beside John and begins wiping away the blood caking John's face. "What did he say?"
"Nothing," John says a bit too quickly, his mind going blank with panic. "I don't know. Something about the biology test. I'm not sure."
"John." Sherlock's hands continue their work, but his eyes are piercing John's skull. "Don't lie to me. What did he say?"
"He…" John chews the inside of his cheek anxiously, unsure of what to say. 'He said that we're fucking'? 'He said that we're disgusting'? 'He said that you're paying me to have sex with you'? Some evil voice in the far, black depths of his mind says, you wouldn't have to pay me, but he quickly silences it. Sherlock is still staring at him, and those brows are drawing together thunderously. He'd better say something, and quick.
"He thinks that you and I-" John breaks off as he realizes that he has no earthly idea of how to finish the sentence. After a moment's consideration, he plunges on. "He thinks we're…you know. Together."
But Sherlock's still staring at him, uncomprehending. Sighing quietly, John wishes that Sherlock had a slightly better grasp of teenage slang than your average grandmother, because now it looks like he's just going to have to come out and say it.
"He thinks we're having sex, Sherlock," he says bluntly, and finally the light of understanding flickers on in those pale eyes. "He thinks we're together in…that way. Like dating."
"He is an idiot," Sherlock says flatly, an odd sort of hardness appearing around the corners of his mouth as he dabs slightly harder at John's forehead. "Anyone with any observational skill whatsoever could see that we are just friends, and anyway you are clearly straight and just ended a long-term relationship and there is absolutely no way-"
"Sherlock," John cuts him off gently, a faint smile hitching up one corner of his mouth. "It's okay. I know we're not having sex."
"Hold still," Sherlock says brusquely, one firm hand cupping John's chin as he cleans the blood off his upper lip. And it's bizarre, it really is, but somewhere deep down John is enjoying this, is enjoying Sherlock's warm hand against his jaw and Sherlock's fingertips brushing his lips and Sherlock's gaze fixed on him and Sherlock's gentle fingers sliding into his hair to tilt his head back as he wipes the blood off his chin.
"I know why he's done this," Sherlock says suddenly, switching out the paper towel in favor of dabbing stinging peroxide onto the place where John's chin split against the hard pavement. "Anderson is trying to scare you away from me."
At John's curious look, Sherlock's frown deepens as he explains, "The boy's hated me ever since I exposed him for bullying money out of first-years a few years ago. And since his direct attacks on me have proved less than successful, he has clearly developed a more sophisticated approach." He clears his throat rather awkwardly, leaning slightly closer to wipe blood out of a tear in John's jumper.
"Namely, singling out the only person in the school who matters to me in the least," Sherlock continues, not meeting John's eyes, "And beating him to a pulp in order to convince him to abandon his friendship with me."
"Well, it won't work," John declares firmly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I fear, John, that it might be better if you did," Sherlock says quietly, and wait a second, what?
"What do you mean?" John asks, and he clearly did a terrible job of keeping the hurt out of his voice because Sherlock is looking at him like he's a wounded bird flopping about piteously in the road.
"As much as I value your friendship," Sherlock says heavily, as if every word pains him, "I care too deeply about you to allow you to be persecuted on my account. In the interest of avoiding further bodily injury, I think it best that you end your association with me."