Where Do We Go From Here?

Chapter Three

“You’ve been following me.”

He froze, torch fumbling in his hands as his heart rate kicked up a notch, thudding away behind his rib cage. Shit buggering shit. Shitshitshitshit. He turned his head ever so slightly, peeking over his shoulder.

 A boy, much taller than himself by at least a good head, loomed over him, eyes narrowed and lips drawn in a small, knowing smirk. “Might I ask why?”

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  Two Weeks Earlier

        News spreads like wildfire.

   LOCAL BOY DROWNS DURING TOURNAMENT  

     

      The heading caught his attention, bold letters practically screaming at him. “Mycroft-” he reached over the table, butter dish and syrup holder clinking under his stomach in dangerous protest, long fingers gripping the edge of the paper. “-give this to me.” he demanded, not really looking for a response as he plucked it out of the elder Holmes’ thick (yet still elegant) hands.

  That did not mean he didn’t receive one anyways. “Sherlock, I was reading that.”

“Yes. But you weren’t actually doing anything important with it, were you?” he settled back in his seat, silver eyes dancing over the article.

  -------

News spreads like wildfire.

  LOCAL BOY DROWNS DURING TOURNAMENT

  It was the only thing interesting that had happened within the last month. Actually, if he were to be honest with himself, it is the only thing interesting that happened in his fifteen years of life. Tragic, yes, but it did not stop that fact that something happened.

  And he felt guilty.

He should.

    He was excited and who the hell is excited about a kid’s death? Insane people. And he was not insane by any means. Or maybe he was?

  The thought alarmed him and he quickly changed his course of the topic altogether.

That lasted all of ten seconds.

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    Students gathered close, packing into the small area of the gym, a projection of Carl Powers bright against one of the white walls, image fading and changing every two minutes.

  John shifted awkwardly, a crowd building around him, girls and boys gathered in clusters of whispering clots, glancing at the wall before averting their eyes quickly, as if the deceased’s face stung them horribly. And it might have.

   It’s not every day a fellow student drowns.  

Carl Powers: Never Forgotten

   John read the bannister at least five times, turning the words over and over in his head and feeling that slight pinch of guilt in his stomach again. I’ve already forgotten him. The thought stung, another part trying to reassure him instantly. No you haven’t. You just didn’t know him all too well. He was just that swimmer in Chemistry.