Buzz.
MH: Did you see it?
John smiled down at his phone, shaking his head in amusement as he stealthily held the device between himself and his desk, hidden from his English teacher's view.
JW: Course I saw it.
He waited.
Buzz.
MH: I might have cried. Just a little.
John held back a scoff, smirking a little at his friend's response and sighing softly, turning away from the screen for a moment to stare blankly ahead. Theballetbee's most recent video had been quite something. Hell, even John had gotten a little teary eyed – only a little, mind you. The stranger in the video had danced with such determination, his body focused; his movements gentle yet almost angry, sharp and soft all at once. John had been entranced by the routine, the words in the song, the beauty of the blurred man of whom had ballet down to perfection. He thought about the number of people who didn't even know about him, of whom he was nonexistent to. John pitied them. He vowed to tell every single person he ever met about this anonymous "balletbee," and he would call doing so a public service.
Buzz.
MH: Okay, maybe a lot.
Molly had been the one to introduce him to the anonymous prodigy – in fact; she'd been the one who got him into YouTube in the first place. They'd been friends for ages, the two of them; starting out as next-door neighbors, attending the same schools, always staying in touch – to John, she was practically part of the family. Once they'd reached secondary school together, she'd turned to him, ordered him into buying a camera and stated, "Don't just tell me your stories. Tell the world."
And so he did, and he'll never stop being grateful to her.
They told one another everything – well, mostly everything – and John found refuge in her more-than-willing-to-listen ears. They shared homework answers, favorite movies, shows, their songs of the week, and it was because of such that John was told all about theballetbee.
It was safe to say Molly was perhaps even more obsessed than he was. He didn't blame her, of course.
He smiled to himself, grabbed for his phone and quickly typed out a reply.
JW: I'm gonna shout him out next vid.
He bit his lip and leaned back in his chair. The dancer deserved it. If John could get just a few of his subscribers to check the lad out, he'd be happy. He'd wanted to for a while, to tell his fans – god, that still sounds weird – about one of his favorite artists, someone he listened to and kept up with on the daily, someone he was close to obsessing over, but he was never sure of when, or how, or frankly, what his watchers would think.
Buzz.
MH: Good on you. Wonder if he watches you?
John paused and narrowed his eyes, humming inwardly to himself before biting his lip in thought.
That would be something. That would be something indeed.
Sherlock lugged his duffle bag beside him, dropping it down by his feet as he plummeted into one of the many desks lining his math class, the late bell only just ringing for his last lesson of the day. He dropped his arms onto the table and laid his head atop them, using his one wrist to hide, best he could, the gash along his eyebrow. It's what he deserved, he supposed. He should have never pointed out the hickey Sebastian Wilkes's received from not his girlfriend, or the fact that Philip Anderson still wets the bed sometimes due to a rather serious bladder issue, or that Carl Powers may or may not have herpes. He couldn't help what he saw; his problem was that he had trouble keeping from voicing it.
He winced, as he pressed just a bit to hard, sighing and swallowing thickly, knowing one blow from Wilkes would certainly leave a bruise. He shouldn't care so much about who saw – his uncle wouldn't look twice, wouldn't ask if he was okay, wouldn't check to make sure it wasn't too bad; he had no friends to show concern anyway; even the teachers hated him here, why would they show any sort of alarm?
No. He was alone, well and truly. The way it should be, he thought.
With a sigh, he watched as his maths teacher spoke animatedly into his phone, sitting straight at his desk, tapping a pencil rapidly against his textbook, fully invested and seemingly unbothered by the full classroom awaiting his direction. Sherlock hummed to himself. Oh good, more time to mope.
"What are you, seventy?"
Sherlock turned slightly in his seat to glance over at the back corner of the room where a number of boys had angled their desks just enough to divulge in a rather lively conversation, hands waving and jaws jiggling vigorously with the speed at which they spoke. Amongst them, Sebastian Moran, James Sholto, Mike Stamford, Gavin – Graham? Geoff? Something with a G – and, Sherlock unconsciously blushed, John Watson. The five of them sat chuckling at one another, John twiddling his mobile in his hands, and Sholto arching a brow at the rugby captain's phone screen.
"Yeah, bit weird, mate," James scoffed, punching John lightly in the shoulder before leaning back in the plastic blue chair of his desk.
"Right, shut up lads," John snapped, half amused and half annoyed – or so he appeared to Sherlock – as he glared at his friends, a frown dawning on his features and creasing the soft skin between his brows, "None of you have even given him a listen."
Lestrade lifted his head from his own phone, clearing his throat to add his own outlook on the situation, running a hand through his silver-dyed hair as he flicked his chin forward, "Oi, John has a point."
The rugby captain nodded and huffed at the rest of the boys, relaxing back in his seat, the conversation quieting a little as John's position seemed to declare it over. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned back around, laying his head down once more and shutting his eyes, eager to drown out the noise, ignore the chattering and obnoxious yelling sounding throughout the classroom, teenagers throwing rubbers at one another, crumpled paper, but, much to his own resentment, his brain seemed to focus in on one thing in particular.
The sound of John Watson's voice – a voice that had sprung into action once more as he bickered with his friends. Soft and gentle, yet stern and strict, a true captain's voice – not a tremor to be heard, not an inch of insecurity, merely pure, overwhelmingly warm confidence, a boy who was comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock smiled a little, for the first time all day, as he listened to the bright sound of John's laugh, joyous and light – Sherlock loved that laugh, that welcoming giggle that wholly enveloped you, that made you feel safe. It was a home. Sherlock was convinced there was a home in John's laugh.
Sherlock was content to simply listen for the remainder of his class period, beginning to relax, shoulders losing tension, eyes lingering shut, mind at ease for once, until that mellow, soft, inviting voice spoke a name that instantly sent him in panic mode – a pure, horrifying, holy-fucking-shit kind of panic mode.
"Theballetbee."
"What kind of name is that?" Sebastian Moran snapped, arching a brow in curiosity and staring down at the YouTube channel displayed on John's mobile screen.
John swallowed thickly, annoyed by his friend's denseness, and snatched his phone back, letting out a sigh and shaking his head, "A suitable one."
"And he does what?" Mike Stamford asked, staring intently at John, rather wrapped up in the blonde's story as he bit into a chocolate bar.
John watched as all his friends stared back at him, brows raised in both intrigue and confusion, each and every one of them looking entirely blank, entirely brainless. He let out a soft scoff and looked down, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair and turning his mobile over in his hands – he had known this was a bad idea from the start but he couldn't not explain himself when Moran had caught him watching one of the dancer's routines while waiting for the bell to ring.
"Ballet and violin," John replied, shrugging a shoulder and swallowing the knot in his throat, "and he composes."
James Sholto let out a snicker and reached for his own phone, yanking it out and tapping the screen swiftly and with practiced ease, "Composes what?"
Rolling his eyes, John grunted out a sharp, "Music."
Sholto shot him a short, playful glare before placing his phone on the table, directly in view of the others as he scrolled through the one and only theballetbee's channel. John watched nervously, biting the inside of his cheek as all his friends practically piled over James and his mobile, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed curiously. It was quiet for a few moments before Sholto spoke up once more, scoffing rather loudly and glancing over at John with a sharp, leering smirk.
"Boring music, you mean," He declared, pushing his phone closer to the others and directing his full attention to John.
John frowned, "Why, because it's classical?"
"Is this what you do in your free time?" James interrogated in amusement, expression frighteningly teasing, "Watch some queer tiptoe around a studio, and play sad violin songs?"
John scowled, clenching and unclenching his fists beneath his desk as he fixed his friend with a rightful, well-deserved glare.
"Why," he bit out, reiterating the boy's words, "is it boring?"
"The kind of music he plays on that ancient violin is the kind of music my granddad puts on for his afternoon naps," Sholto scoffed, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back in his seat, "Boring."
Moran took the tense, and rather short, moment of silence to chime in, shrugging a shoulder and leaning back in his seat, letting out a wide yawn as he shut his eyes and crossed his arms over his firm chest, "He could at least add a beat to some of them or some shit like that."
John glanced at him, instantly glaring daggers, sending the boy into a state of reddened shame as he slouched further in his chair and acted as though he were going to take a conveniently timed catnap. When the rugby captain turned away from the brute and back to the other boy choosing to push his buttons, Sholto was shaking his head in amusement and running a pale hand through his bleach blonde hair.
"We're not trying to piss you off purposely, mate," James guffawed, grinning at John's uptight position in his chair, shoulders raised, eyes fixated and narrowed, "but he's just not our style, yeah?"
Greg Lestrade glanced over at John's clenched jaw and cleared his throat, sliding Sholto's mobile across the desk and back in front of the judgmental idiot of a human being. "I thought he was alright," He added, shrugging one shoulder and swallowing thickly as both John and James turned their full attention towards him.
The tension's hold on John's expression instantly broke as a wide smile corrupted the anger in his features, teeth bared brightly as he nodded his head in pure gratitude for his friend. Greg was a good lad – he'd known him since his start at the school, gotten to know him better through rugby, and become even closer through simple self-expression. Greg didn't judge, unlike practically everyone else at Baker.
Sholto scoffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes and looking towards the front of the room, "You plonkers need to upgrade."
"I'm still not over the nutty name he goes by," Moran murmured, half asleep in his chair.
John shut his eyes in pure agony. Brainless oafs.
If Sherlock didn't breathe anytime soon, he'd certainly pass out.
John Watson watches his videos. His videos. His compositions, his dances, his covers. All of it.
John was a fan. John was a fan of his work – John was a fan of him. And bloody hell was he a fan of John.
Sherlock jolted as a loud voice pierced through the veil of the corner table's conversation, his maths teacher springing into action, the very shrillness of his tone cringe-worthy. The curly-haired brunette glanced around discretely as students began groaning and quieting, reaching in their bags for pencils and pens, papers and folders. Sherlock merely sat still – glued to his place there, in his uncomfortable chair, his elbows digging into the wooden surface of his desk, his mind whirling with information he wasn't sure he'd be able to contain for much longer.
Sherlock considered the entire scenario. John watched him, watched what he made, and seemed, believe it or not, rather, entirely, intrigued by him. In fact, John sounded impressed, proud, ridiculously so but legitimately, thoroughly bewildered. Why, and how Sherlock had managed to deserve to have John as a viewer, as a subscriber, he'd never know. But John's friends – they were another story.
He scoffed internally to himself, a smirk spreading across the whole of his expression as he considered his options.
Oh, he'd show them. He'd make his point. Now that he could, now that he knew he'd be able to reach the eyes of human beings who continuously make his life a living hell, he couldn't give up the opportunity to shame them, to prove them wrong.
They would see, he would make them see, what a thoroughly equipped mind, and a simple alteration to song, could do.
"Something funny, Holmes?" His maths teacher asked, halfway through a lecture on quadratic equations.
Sherlock smirked a little wider, his eyes lifting to latch on to his teacher's own as he swallowed and cleared his throat, "No sir. Nothing whatsoever."
He would do this. He could do this.
He would take some kind of stand, a musical decision to prove a well-needed point. He would compose something new, something untouchable and untamable.
And, best of all, he would make John proud.
