When Sherlock didn't answer him and continued to stare at the front of the room, John reached over and shook his shoulder tentatively. "Sherlock?"
Now, to understand why what happened next happened as it did, a little background information is necessary.
When one happens to be the outcast of a large group of young adults (like Sherlock), there is bound to be some sort of harassment, and a decent percentage of that harassment is bound to be physical. If one is subjected to enough back pats that turn out to be shoves, then it becomes instinct to flinch from unasked-for physical contact. Which is exactly what Sherlock did- he jerked away from John's hand on his shoulder.
Now, this wouldn't have been a problem if several things hadn't happened. The first, that one of the back legs of Sherlock's lab stool was loose, and the maintenance man had put off fixing it in lieu of skiving off work early to meet up with his girlfriend. The second, that the room in which they were situated was rather large (as was everything in the school), and as such, the lab tables were further apart than a standard room- far apart enough to enable a nasty head injury for anyone falling backwards. Which brings us back to Sherlock.
When Sherlock recoiled from John (for the above mentioned reason), he put more weight on the back end of his stool than the wobbly leg could handle (also see above), and it gave out. This sent Sherlock falling backwards, and his head, more specifically, flying into the edge of the table directly behind him.
A second or so of stunned silence later, and John had vacated his own stool (in the interests of Sherlock's safety, not because he was worried it would collapse under him as well) and was in the process of lifting Sherlock out of the growing pool of blood (and trying not to laugh at the comically surprised expression he remembered seeing on Sherlock's face as his head felt the effects of gravity).
"I'm fine. Head wounds bleed unnecessarily because of the vessels carrying blood to the blood brain barrier. It's nothing to worry about, really, just a slightly larger than normal amount of blood. I've seen worse." Sherlock stopped talking to try to wave John away, but ended up hitting the edge of his own nose. He stared down it with a vaguely confused look, and that was when John decided to get his lab partner to the nurse before the teacher walked in and assumed John was trying to murder another student. Although, John mused, if that had been his goal, there certainly seemed to be enough blood to make it feasible.
"Let's get you to the nurse anyways," John grunted, heaving Sherlock completely upright.
Now, this is where everything changes. If Sherlock had not injured himself in such a spectacular manner (or if John had not decided to bring him to the nurse himself), this story could have had many different endings, and not have been much of a story at all. Sherlock could have stayed uninjured, quashed his feelings for John, and after an eventful but ultimately unfulfilling life, ended up as a crotchety beekeeper in Sussex. He could have also died strung out in his twenties, or had hot, angry sex with John and then the two would have gone their separate ways, each not knowing what had passed them by.
But, in this particular case, John doesn't much mind the blood on his shirt, and half carries, half drags Sherlock to the nurse's room, setting in motion what was bound to be a much more entertaining narrative than the alternatives.
The way there takes long enough for John to form some interesting opinions about his new acquaintance. For example, when he tells Sherlock to attempt to retain consciousness, Sherlock begins listing the factors that effect when rigor mortis sets in on a human body.
Opinion formed from that? Either Sherlock does a ridiculous amount of internet research on macabre topics, or he's around dead people too much. John thinks the latter was more probable; he'd heard rumors that Sherlock had helped the police during a particularly nasty series of murders in the surrounding town a year ago.
When Sherlock has been safely deposited in an equally uncomfortable seat (but with a much lower chance of depositing its cargo on the ground), John gets a wad of paper towels to press to Sherlock's now blood-soaked curls. John gets up to find the nurse, but Sherlock interrupts with an uninterested "She's on lunch break, obviously."
John turns around and leans against the edge of the counter from behind which the nurse reigns over the waiting room (if she were there, that is), not-unknowingly choosing a pose that presses his toned stomach to his too-tight-for-regulation shirt. "That reminds me," he stares at Sherlock, a pleased sensation uncurling at the base of his navel when he sees how Sherlock has to flick his eyes up from John's abdominal muscles to meet John's gaze. "How did you know all that about me before?"
Sherlock makes a noise that in a less dignified looking boy (not regarding the wad of paper towels pressed to his bleeding head) would qualify as a snort. "Obvious."
"Not to me." John raises an eyebrow, a trick he had perfected to pick up girls from across a room, but one that worked well in a non-seduction related situation.
Sherlock exhales more noisily than completely necessary, and takes a deep breath. "Financial status- easily deduced from the state of your shoes. Nice, but well worn. You've obviously had them for a while, probably since your feet stopped growing. The style is a few years old, but they look well cared for- everything but the laces. That shows that it's not that you have some sort of ridiculous sentimental attachment to the shoes- if you did, you would take care to keep the original laces intact, or, at the very least, choose some that fit the shoes. The laces you have now are too large for the threading holes in the shoes- you can afford new laces, but not new shoes. Your family could afford a nice enough wardrobe for you to fit in here, but don't splurge on expensive shoes often. Middle class. Your father was even simpler. You sit without the appalling slouching tendency so often found in this generation, and the set of your shoulders says military. You're obviously too young to be in the military yourself, so a close male relative- father or older brother. You wouldn't be as confident in your sexuality as you are if you had an older, military brother, so that says father. Your mother's occupation was easy to see from the scars on your hands and arms- multiple, indicative of an active childhood. However, some of them have healed with near-hospital precision. That says they were stitched professionally. Others, the ones on your non-dominant arm, are less neat. There would be no reason to go to A&E to get some wounds stitched but not others. Explanation? Some were sewn by a family member, who then taught you to stitch yourself. Most likely mother; if your military father had tried it, most mothers would have insisted their child go to the hospital unless they were capable of treating it themselves. The sister was tricky- you glanced at your phone on the way in, with that grimace that all siblings have used, and is in fact mostly reserved for siblings. The fact that you're the first to go here suggests that you're the oldest, and a younger brother would be unlikely, again given with how comfortable you are with your sexuality. If you'd had one, your parents would have told you to 'tone it down' so he wouldn't get ideas, if that were possible. So, a younger sister. You worry- the way you pursed your mouth as you checked the phone indicates displeasure with what had been sent, and displeasure is usually accompanied by anxiety of some sort. The most likely reason to worry about a younger sister would be that she starts fights -pugnacious- but the way you looked around briefly after you checked the phone seems like you were assuring yourself of your surroundings- of being accepted. That wouldn't be relevant unless your sister was unable to fit in- hence, lesbian. Probably both. The way you discovered your latent bisexuality is obvious. Most of the boys you've been with have been older than you, suggesting a taste for older men. You transferred here on short notice, and if the gossip is to be believed, after you were outed to your parents. Those two –older men and a new school- lead one to conclude that a school-related man was the one who originally had relations with you. Statistically most likely would be an older student tutoring you, or a young professor. Your lack of issues with women is obvious from the way you carry yourself and the amount of them you've spent the night with since you came here. Your two most recent conquests can be observed from the lip gloss stain on the inside collar of your shirt- faded enough to be from yesterday, but you hadn't noticed it yet, so late yesterday. The second is visible from the nail marks on the back of your neck and the wrinkles in your clothes. Obvious."
During the entire monologue, John had felt his jaw moving more and more towards the ground, and his eyebrows migrating in the opposite direction.
"Holy shit," he says, unable to articulate anything more. "You're a bloody genius, is what you are."
Sherlock stares at the floor again, and John decides to have the awkward conversation now, while Sherlock is still suffering from blood loss and can't run away.
"I'm not going to seduce you," he comments, stifling a chuckle as Sherlock's head snaps up with an incredulous look. "Not that you aren't attractive- you are, incredibly so," (from the slow blush that spreads across Sherlock's prominent cheekbones, John surmises that he hadn't had many people tell him that) "but I figure it'll be an awkward year if you spend the whole of it waiting for me to jump your bones. And if I do and it ends badly, then I don't want a lab partner who hates me, especially not one as competent as yourself. Now, I'm not saying you're not fair game after the class is over, but you're safe for now. Scout's honor." John holds up three fingers and grins, waiting for Sherlock's reaction (which is, of course, as brilliant as he'd expected).
Sherlock's lips part and close a few times, as if he was trying to find the words to express just how out of his depth he was in this situation. He finally settles for "Wouldn't you 'seducing' me if I were unwilling count as molestation?"
"Believe me," John purrs, "when it comes to me, no one's unwilling." His grin grows in accordance with Sherlock's blush, but he goes back to being serious a moment later. "I promise, Sherlock. I'm not the big bad wolf come to steal your virginity." Sherlock's confused face at the reference prompts a sigh from John.
"While your syntax is odd, your point is acceptable." Sherlock nods, as if to assure himself that he just agreed to not be seduced. John mentally waves away the abnormality of the situation and slips one more clause into the posited agreement.
"Also, you have to tell me your deductions about people." John again assumes this is something Sherlock hasn't been asked often, judging from his reaction.
"… Really?" Sherlock inquires, and John nods.
"Tell me what you can figure out. It's brilliant!"
And of course the nurse chooses this moment to return, with Sherlock not noticing that the towels have soaked through with blood and staring at John like he's never seen anything like him before (which, to be honest, he hadn't), and John posing akin to a model against her desk.
"Ooh boys," she sighs, and moves over to Sherlock to inspect his head. "What's happened now?"
As John watches the elderly nurse coo over his un-seduction partner, he can't help but think that this year is promising to be even better than the last.
I was absolutely floored by the response to my first chapter. Basically a 1k prologue, and I get 6 reviews and a crap ton of story alerts and favorites? Thank you so much! So, for your present, here's the next chapter. Waaaay earlier than promised. Hope you like it~!