Okay, here's chapter three. Please, please review! It would mean the world to me if you would leave a line or two letting me know what you all think. :)
Sherlock Holmes was awake before six o'clock, and from his dormitory window he could see the football team-clad in red jerseys-straggling down the foggy pitch. Grey mist rolled across the lush countryside that surrounded Dorsey, and billowing thunderheads looming to the east promised rain later in the day. It was too early to head for the dining hall, so Sherlock contented himself to working on his latest science experiment-a study of the effects of poisonous mold on a cockroach. He had read somewhere that the insects could withstand nuclear warfare, and would probably outlast the human race by millions of years. He was interested to know if they were also immune to a type of mold that often caused respiratory failure in humans. He had hidden his little setup last night, fearing that John might ask questions. Now he retrieved it from the bottom of the wardrobe. The cockroach, which he had fondly christened 'Mycroft' was still scuttling round the bottom of the glass terrarium. Sherlock opened his experiment log and wrote:
Day Fourteen. Subject shows no symptoms of mold poisoning.
He closed the leather-bound journal and cast it onto his cluttered desk. Staring at the messy space, he noticed something unusual: a paper with the name John Watson scrawled hastily across the top. He figured that the other boy must have left it there the previous night.
Probably in his haste to leave, Sherlock thought. He was no idiot-he knew what the other students at Dorsey thought of him. He knew that they considered him freakish, an arrogant smartass who was too clever for his own good. And maybe there was some truth to their cruel statements.
Sherlock carefully tucked the paper into his satchel alongside his laptop computer. He would find John later, perhaps after the football game. Sherlock didn't make a habit of attending school sporting events-he found them dull and pointless, and the endless cheering from both sides highly irksome. Instead, he headed for the relative peace and quiet of the library, even though it wouldn't open for another half hour.
It was a quarter past six in the morning, and John jogged across the misty football pitch, his breath clouding in the icy morning air. Coach Hester didn't allow warmup jackets during pre-game exercises-he felt they bred weakness, much to the chagrin of his team. This morning it was barely ten degrees Celsius, and the sound of griping could be heard from across the grassy pitch.
"This should be an easy win," Hester shouted at them, voice carrying in the cold air. "We're playing the Barton Bears, and they've yet to beat us!"
This information brought forth a round of halfhearted cheers; John barely recalled playing the Bears last year, it had been an uneventful game.
Sure enough, the Rangers beat the Bears by three goals, a victory that lifted team spirits. John, who had watched from the sidelines, straggled up to Sunday morning Mass alongside a cheery Greg Lestrade.
"This is a good omen," Greg said, voice buoyant with elation. "The team is really together this year, if we keep playing like this we'll have a good chance against Cheshire next week."
John nodded in agreement, distracted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes staring at him from outside the chapel doors.
"What's he want?" Greg asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.
"Dunno," John replied, keeping his tone even. As they reached the pair of heavy oak doors, Sherlock stepped forwards.
"You left this in my dormitory last night-" the dark-haired boy began, holding out a history worksheet. John glanced around; he could hear the other members of the team catching up to them. If they saw him talking to Holmes, he was done for. It was bad enough that Lestrade was standing nearby. John snatched the paper away, crumpling it into a ball.
"Thanks," he muttered, hurrying after Lestrade into the chapel. He could see Sherlock standing behind him, stock still, and a pang of guilt flashed through him. His conscience screamed at him to go back, apologize for being so uncouth, but the tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that speaking publicly to Sherlock Holmes was social suicide.
"What did Holmes want?" Greg demanded when John slid into the pew beside him. His voice sounded gruff, almost protective.
"Nothing," John lied. "He found something that I dropped yesterday."
Greg gave a noncommittal hum. A few minutes later, the chapel was full of students talking and laughing, the din of several hundred teenagers in a small space. As soon as the sermon started, John unfurled the crumpled paper. In spidery scrawl it read,
I know that you're ashamed to be seen with my in public. Come to my dormitory at five o'clock.
John shoved the paper back into his pocket and glanced backward. Sherlock Holmes was sitting near the back of the chapel, staring straight ahead. Even from at that distance, his ice-blue eyes shone with a focused intensity, as though he were seeking out John, and John alone.
An hour later, Sherlock ducked out of the chapel ahead of the rest of Dorsey's student body. He strode across the grassy quad, his thoughts lingering on one boy: John Watson. Of course the popular footballer had been ashamed to be seen talking to Sherlock Holmes, the school freak, in public. Of course he had snatched the paper away and hurried off, eager to get away from Sherlock. But, Sherlock thought, if the answer was so obvious, why did it hurt so much? And when five o'clock came and went, the clock's hand moving forward, oblivious to Sherlock's sudden anguish.