Chapter Three
Second Thoughts
"Are you sure this is advisable, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, swirling the whisky in his tumbler as he gazes at his little brother. "You remember how things ended with Victor in year eight?"
"Yes, thank you Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, picking up his violin. He pauses in the middle of applying resin to the bow. "John's different. I know it."
"He seems to be very easily led. And doesn't he associate with the popular crowd? That doesn't sound like a recipe for success to me."
"He's different," Sherlock insists, although his tone is a little weaker. "He's not Victor."
Mycroft pauses and takes a sip of his whisky before he replies. "I just don't want to see you hurt again, Sherlock. I would have thought the experience with Victor would have proved to you that caring is not an advantage. Who are you trying to convince that John is different? Because I don't think it's me."
Sherlock doesn't reply, choosing to launch into an elaborate and loud concerto. Mycroft sighs and gets up. He watches Sherlock for a minute before reaching out and ruffling his hair. As he leaves the room he murmurs under his breath.
"Be careful, brother dear."
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John gets out of the car, shuts the door and stares at his house as the driver pulls away. Swallowing, he sets his shoulders back and lets himself in. He kicks off his ratty trainers in the hallway and tentatively begins climbing the stairs. He should have known he wouldn't be so lucky.
"John!" The shout comes from the doorway to his right. Screwing his eyes shut briefly he takes a deep breath before turning and going back down the stairs. Entering the living room he takes up a firm stance by the door as he looks at his father.
Hamish Watson is slumped on the sofa, an open can of beer in his hand. The ashtray next to him is overflowing with cigarette butts and the room is redolent with the stench of smoke. As he turns to his only son, John can see that his dark blue eyes are bloodshot and angry.
"What time d'you call this?" he demands, his voice rough.
"I know it's late, dad, but I was just at a friend's house. We were doing homework for a project."
"Bullshit!" his dad roars, heaving himself to his feet, a fair quantity of beer sloshing over the rim of his can. "You've been with one of your little bum buddies haven't you?"
John gapes, still not used to the accusations his dad levels at him almost constantly. "No! I'm not gay, Dad!"
"Sure," his dad sneers. "Well, you certainly won't be for much longer. I'll beat the queer out of you if it's the last thing I do."
With no other warning his free hand lashes out, catching John a forceful blow on the side of his head. The pain flares, sharp and stinging and John clutches at his face, his eyes watering. Hamish is just getting ready for another go when John's mother peers around the partition door.
"Dinner's ready, dear," she slurs. John determinedly catches her gaze, the left side of his face already turning red from his father's strike. She drops her eyes to the floor and shuffles back into the kitchen. John feels tears threatening to fall and blinks them back. To cry would be to show punishable weakness.
Dinner is a silent affair. His mother, father and sister drink all the way through. John stares at his glass of water miserably.
"So, Johnny, how's school?" his mother asks.
"Fine," he mumbles.
"Doing well in your classes?"
"Fine."
"You still friends with Rob Drake and Joe Winters?" his father demands. John stares at his plate and nods. "Well, they'll keep you on the straight road. Their dads are decent blokes. Real men, John. None of this nancy business."
"Yes, dad. Actually I was thinking of going to see a film with them tomorrow. That new one with the hot actress." As he hears himself speak, he cringes internally. This isn't him. He wants to hit himself. He can sense Harry gawping at him from across the table.
His dad's thick brows knit together. "Oh, yeah I think I know the one." He laughs raucously and claps John on the back, making him jolt forward. "Good choice, John boy."
As soon as he is safe in his room, John puts on his loudest rock CD and gazes at himself in the mirror. He sees a teenage boy, perhaps a little on the short side but with decent body muscle. His hair is thick and a dark blonde. He also sees the bruise which is starting to form on his cheek. He sees the tired blue eyes. He sees a coward who can't be himself because he's scared of being rejected.
Abruptly he whirls around and fishes his mobile out from his pocket.
What time d'you want me round tomorrow? JW
He flings the phone onto his bed and sinks down next to it, his head in his hands. Less than a minute has passed before it chimes with an incoming text.
Does 10:30am suit? SH
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Sherlock paces in front of the windows anxiously, one hand buried in his hair, the other tapping a rhythm on his jeans. Mycroft watches him with a slightly worried expression. He's seen his brother like this before and the results had been devastating. Still, Sherlock doesn't take kindly to interference, especially not from him. The most he can do is sit back and let it play out how it will.
The distinctive sounds of a car pulling up makes Sherlock suddenly bolt from the room. Mycroft sighs.
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"You didn't have to send the car you know," John says, ruffling his hair as he peers at Sherlock. "I could have got the bus."
Sherlock shrugs. "It seemed easier and it saves you a bus fare." He pauses and then looks closer at John. "Your father?"
John instinctively raises a hand to the blossoming bruise on his cheek. "Yeah. He wasn't too happy."
"What did you tell your friends?"
"Said I was feeling sick. They hurled abuse via text but seemed to accept it."
They stand awkwardly for a few moments. "So, what d'you fancy doing?" Sherlock asks eventually. "I realise tree climbing and such is out so…"
John interrupts, holding out a hand. "No, Sherlock. I'm sorry for saying that. It actually sounds kinda fun. I even bought swimming trunks for the lake." He holds up a plastic Lidl bag as proof. Sherlock smiles.
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"You call that a dive?" John calls mockingly as Sherlock bobs to the surface, dark hair plastered to his face. "That was shocking!"
"I'd like to see you do any better," Sherlock shouts back.
John immediately strides to the end of the wooden jetty, squares his shoulders and executes a near perfect dive. He comes up spluttering and finds himself face to face with Sherlock. Up this close he can pick out every individual eyelash, every twitch of the muscles in the other boy's face. Those mercurial eyes flicker from side to side as Sherlock gazes at him. John finds his gaze dropping to Sherlock's full lips and he swallows. John treads water automatically as he leans a little closer, aware that Sherlock has mirrored his movement. Suddenly all of his friends and his father's words flash into his mind and he backs away in the water, his eyes wide with horror.
"So," he coughs out awkwardly. "Climbing trees next? Should get dry though first, right?"
"Right," Sherlock echoes faintly, looking a little bewildered. However soon enough the implacable mask has descended again and he swims after John's swiftly retreating figure.
To John's surprise it's easily the best day he's had in quite awhile. When he's with Sherlock he realises that he doesn't have to pretend to be someone he's not. He doesn't have to fake interest in porn magazines or the latest football scores. He can be himself.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" John asks as they sit on the bank, dangling their feet in the water some time later. Sherlock huffs and gazes up at the sky.
"I don't know. My mother and Mycroft both have all these expectations of what I should do with my life. But I honestly have no idea. Mycroft has it easy, he's known he's wanted to be in politics since he was about six apparently."
"You're good at science," John ventures. "Couldn't you be a research scientist or something?"
"I'd get bored," Sherlock replies. "I don't want to limit myself. I want to do something that's going to be challenging and different every day."
John frowns. "I think being a research scientist would be that," he says. Sherlock flicks a piece of grass at him. "Alright. Then what about using that thing you do? You know, the deducing thing."
"That's just a trick," Sherlock says dismissively. "It's never going to get me anywhere."
"Let me guess, that's something your mother and Mycroft have told you, right?"
Sherlock blinks at him, looking vaguely surprised and a little impressed.
"How did you know?"
"Because that's got parental interference written all over it. It's like telling a kid who loves to sing that they'll never make it as a singer or someone who paints that they'll never be an artist."
"Well what do you think I could do with it?"
John shrugs and thinks for awhile. "I don't know. A detective of some kind?"
Sherlock doesn't reply and they sit in peaceful silence for a minute or two.
"What do you want to be? A doctor or a soldier?" Sherlock asks eventually.
"I'd like to do both. Maybe an army doctor?"
"It'd be very dangerous," Sherlock says. John glances sharply at him but there's no emotion on Sherlock's face as he remains gazing blankly up at the sky. John feels a little disappointed. He doesn't know what he was hoping to see… perhaps some sort of worry for him? But then he has to remind himself that Sherlock is Sherlock. He simply doesn't care about anybody else in any meaningful manner.
"If you… get into trouble and you need somebody just give me a call, yeah?"
Sherlock's words from yesterday drift across his mind and he gives himself a little shake. Beginning to think that Sherlock has any sort of real emotional connection to anybody will only make him feel guiltier about Rob's party idea.
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At school on Monday, John corners Rob after their P.E lesson.
"Listen mate, I don't think the whole thing with Sherlock's a good idea."
Rob looks at him as if he's grown a third head. "What? Why not?"
John fidgets and kicks at the floor. "It's just… he's not that bad, you know? Once you get to know him."
"What d'you think we're going to do to him? Kill him? John, mate, we're just going to take him down a peg or two. Nothing serious. It'll do him good in the long run, to learn a bit of humility."
John clenches his fists. "It just doesn't seem right, Rob. Shouldn't we just rise above it? I know he can be difficult but he's still a person."
Rob takes a step back and eyes him speculatively. "You're not actually friends with him, are you? He doesn't have friends, unless they're one of his little bum buddies."
"You've been with one of your little bum buddies haven't you?"
John swallows hard. "No, not at all. No, we're just partners for this stupid project. Don't worry, Rob, I'll get him to come. When is it again?"
"Next Saturday. They've moved it forward because Ryan's parents are out of town that weekend."
John smiles weakly. "Awesome. We'll be there."
"Make sure of it." Rob leans forward confidentially. "I'm telling you this because I'm your mate, alright? And mates look out for each other. You've got to watch your back, John. People are noticing how close you and Sherlock are at the moment."
"What? I've been round to his house like twice. We're… we're partners for this project…"
Rob lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know that, mate. But people talk, you know?"
That evening at home, John stares once more at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't quite know how he's come to this point. At his core he knows that what he's planning on doing to Sherlock isn't right. He's unsure now whether or not the other boy deserves it whereas before he'd been so sure. He hates Sherlock for making him doubt himself and hates him for putting him in this position.
It used to be so easy. He was a member of the popular crowd. People never hassled him or gave him any grief. Being somebody makes coming home to his drunken family easier. It makes the bruises easier to bear when he knows that someone in the lunch queue will give up their place for him if he looks at them in a certain way.
Now Sherlock Holmes has come into his life and turned it all upside down. John gives himself a little shake and squares his shoulders. Sherlock is arrogant. Sherlock is rude and cruel to others. A little dressing down wouldn't go amiss.
John nods at his reflection and dresses for bed, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut.
