TITLE: Wrong Turn
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Five/ Surprise Me
RATING: T (violence/language)
A/N: My new cat hates me. Wait, that's not an author's note. Close enough.
Chapter Five: Surprise Me
"I'm sorry, John. I just can't allow it."
John sat across from the rugby coach, a frown so low on his drooping face that it was practically falling off his chin. He had gone in search of the man later that day after school, the third time since he head been transferred.
"Please," John was certainly not begging.
"We've already discussed this," the man with the chiseled face, yet rounded body sighed. "I've read your medical file. You're still supposed to be in physical therapy, which you haven't been going to."
"I can't afford it." John wasn't exactly lying. They'd used up all the money from the accident on hospital bills and the first month's rent.
"Well, that I can help you with, if you'd like. Maybe during your lunch or after practices -"
"No, thank you," John shook his hand as he stood.
"Look, John," the coach grunted in a way meant to sound encouraging. "You're bright. Don't waste that. Alright? What happened to you and your parents is terrible. It's unfair. But don't let it beat you down. You have plenty of things to fight right now, to push against, without rugby. Take some time. And don't stop fighting."
John didn't respond as he shouldered his backpack and slunk away. At least this guy was better than his old chain smoking, cursing, and hollering coach. Of course, he'd take that short-tempered, troll of a man. He'd take any coach, if it meant he could play.
He was still sulking when he pushed his way through the school's back doors, and right into the middle of a fight. It actually wasn't even a proper rumble. It was more like four on one.
Because, well, it was.
And, in the middle, curled in on himself and bleeding, was Sherlock Holmes.
Even just the sight of the flash of black curls lit him up with a rage, and guilt. He hadn't been able to scrub the boy's last words from his mind. They had even echoed in his nightmares that evening. And yet, no matter what, John was pretty sure four against one wasn't exactly a fair fight. The same moral compass that had steered him to protect the stranger the first time was now pointing him once more in the same direction.
Well, his coach had told him to fight.
Four beefy brained bullies probably wasn't what he had in mind.
Not to mention that John was currently in no shape to tangle with the testosterone filled teenagers. He would probably have just ended up a heap on the ground too.
Maybe they'd accidentally rip open his stitches and bleed to death. That wasn't such a bad thought. Until he remembered Harry.
He had to think, and he had to do it quickly.
"You bloody bastard," John announced his presence as he stomped forward, his limp nowhere to be seen. "You cock."
"What'd the freak do to you, mate?" One of the neanderthals grinned a crooked-tooth smile.
"Wanker talked about my mum," John only half lied. "Was hoping to catch him tomorrow. Mind if I join you?"
"Be my guest," the boy chuckled, his throat sounded like it was gargling thick soup. "The git told my girlfriend I was cheating on her."
"Well, you were," Sherlock mumbled.
"Shut up," John planted a kick to Sherlock's side before the boy could get a decent one in. "You guys mind if I have a little one on one with the wanker alone?" John ground out. "I'll leave him in one piece for you."
"Leave him in ten for all I care," another boy snarled.
"Yeah," the apparent cheater shrugged. "This is gettin' boring anyway. We've got practice. You should think about rugby, mate. Have fun. And Holmes, we'll see you tomorrow."
The boys were still stalking away when John hefted Sherlock up by the collar, dragging him around a corner and then shoving him up against the wall. He glanced over his shoulder once before releasing the battered brunet.
Sherlock's look of genuine surprise and confusion wasn't hidden this time.
"You – you're not going to pummel me?" He inquired with a curious cock of his head, as if studying the other teenager.
"What?" John drew back. "'Course not. Just didn't feel like taking on all four by myself."
Sherlock still appeared skeptical.
"Look, they're right. You are a git. And you did technically talk about my mum. But no one deserves a beating like that."
John paused when Sherlock failed to stop staring at him like he was some grotesque science project. Actually, given the odd bee collection and experiments, he probably would look at a grotesque science experiment with excitement. Not like this.
"What?" John demanded, wondering vaguely if there was something on his face.
"You," Sherlock paused, speaking impossibly slowly compared to his usual cadence, "surprised me. No one's ever done that before."
John didn't quite know what to say to that and promptly changed the subject.
"I thought you said you were a good fighter," he teased, trying to lighten the mood while diverting the attention off of himself.
"I am," Sherlock's chest sprung outward and upward, and if he had had feathers, they probably would have flourished. "If you remember, there were four, and they – they caught me by surprise."
"I thought you said no one surprises you," John quipped, immediately regretting it when that disconcerting look spread over Sherlock's face once more.
"They grabbed me and hit me over the head before I could fight back," Sherlock continued. "Cowards."
"What did they hit you with?" John couldn't help the concern that seeped into his voice.
His dad had been a doctor. John knew all about the dangers of head wounds.
"This."
John glanced down at Sherlock's hands, and his Chemistry book cradled in them. He hadn't even noticed it until then.
"Is that -"
"I was – waiting for you. You like avoiding attention and you take the train home. Naturally, I deduced that you would use this exit."
"You were waiting for me?" John squinted.
"I see we are back to parroting," Sherlock sighed. "You left your book after our – meeting – yesterday. I only thought it was logical to return it."
"You – you didn't have to do that," John shook his head.
"I am perfectly aware of what I do and do not have to do. And, actually considering your terrible notes that were tucked inside, I'd say I did. With your problems in Chemistry, you'll need all the help you can get."
"Uh, thanks?"
John wasn't sure if he was actually properly being insulted or not. He was asking that question a lot around Sherlock.
"I took the liberty of adding my own notes in the margins," Sherlock continued. "I think you will find them helpful."
"Thanks," John repeated himself.
"I was merely wasting time in between experiments last night," Sherlock shrugged.
Again, that odd expression crossed Sherlock's face. John wondered if, not only had no one ever surprised him, but maybe no one else had ever showed him kindness either. Complimented him. Thanked him. Been a friend to him.
Was that what John was doing here? Befriending Sherlock Holmes? He had come to the boy's aid twice now. Well, if that was the case, then he was also, in turn, demolishing any social standing he had hoped to gain at the new school. He had been quite the star rugby player at his old school, not to mention a bit of a lady killer when he felt like bragging about it. It was funny, how none of that seemed to matter anymore. He had just been begging – no, asking – for the third time for a spot on the team. What had changed in the last ten minutes? What had caused John to suddenly think of turning in this different direction?
"And – perhaps – talking about your parents was – not good," Sherlock spoke slowly and John wondered if this was the closest the boy had come to apologizing before.
"Yeah," John swallowed, shifting his backpack nervously. "Look, thanks again, for this," he held up the book, "and for not, you know, giving my sister anything yesterday. I should get going. I've got to get to work."
Sherlock stood silently and John almost rolled his eyes. If Sherlock wasn't going to say anything, even goodbye, well then, neither was he.
Instead, John wordlessly turned and shuffled hurriedly away, cursing the limp that slowed him down.