Freak (Sherlock x reader high school AU)

Two: "Normal" Conversation

"Hello (y/n)" cuts a clear voice through the chatter of the dining hall. It's nosier than usual, kids having conversations with their mums and dads, telling them how they've been since the last parent visit three months back.

Yours didn't come, just as they told you they wouldn't. And still some part of you hoped they'd show, surprise you. But they aren't those kind of people.

You don't move, just dart your eyes from left to right, finding no one sitting next to or across from you. Suddenly, someone's hand gently touches your arm, you retract as if it was burning hot, when in fact the fingers are cold.

"I'm sitting behind you" he mutters, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You turn around slowly to see the back of a head of dark curly hair. He's sitting at the table behind you, turned away. You turn away as well, your backs to each other.

"Oh, hi Sherlock" you smile faintly, you know it's weird to talk to a person when you're both facing the opposite direction, but at the same time it's kind of nice. No trying to hold their gaze or wondering what you should do with your hands. Just words.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I should be the one asking you that" remembering the blows he took last night from Thomas.

"But you didn't, and here we are"

You're not sure what to say that. Two conversations in one week. A new record.

"I'm fine though" he says after a moment.

"Good. I am too" followed by more silence, "How old are you?" the question is random, but it's the first that comes to mind, and it fills the silence you hate.

"Sixteen years, four months, two weeks, three days, and twelve hours" is his detailed response. The thought crosses your mind that people may be looking at you two. After all, both sitting alone at tables it could look as if you were talking to yourselves. You tug at the hood of your jacket.

"That's good. I mean not, good, I guess, but I mean, it's nice. Er, I mean, you look sixteen, sort of, maybe younger, no offense-"

"Oh, none taken. It's my wiry frame and soft boyish features, plus the wild curls that don't respond to any brand of hair product" you chuckle at this, even though he didn't mean it as a joke.

"Do you have any siblings?" new questions popping into your head.

"Yes, a brother"

"Does he go here?"

"No"

"Favorite color?"

"Pink" he nods.

"Favorite food?"

"Why are you asking all these questions?" he halts the rapid stream of inquiries.

You curse under your breath, realizing it must be unusual to ask so many.

"This is how normal conversations go" sounds like a right enough answer.

"Have you ever had a normal conversation?

"Have you?" you retort without hesitation. A pause. "I...watch a lot of movies. Characters always end up knowing everything about it each other. I figured if you are going to be a character in my life movie or whatever, I should get to know you" maybe that's even weirder than all the questions.

"I see" he nods, no hint of judgement.

You make swirls with your fork in a heap of mashed potatoes on your tray.

"You can sit next to me if you'd like" closing your eyes as you make the offer, holding your breath, stomach tightening. The idea of him saying no, or worse, nothing at all, makes you want to throw up. Rejection is a horrid thing, no matter who it comes from.

"Are...you sure?" the hesitation in his voice surprising. He's always so sure of his words, "If I do, people will look, they will notice you. And I know you try to avoid that at all costs"

"It's fine" even though the thought of people staring at you makes you feel otherwise.

"I'm cautioning you because being seen with me could bring you unwanted attention and/or ridicule-"

"Sherlock, I don't care" when you do in fact care. He can hear it in your voice. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, he finds himself sitting next to you. And, for some unexplainable reason, any fears clutching your chest melt away.

Neither of you says a word. You just sit, eating dinner, existing in each other's company.

"Can I ask you another question?" you ponder after awhile.

"That in itself was already a question, but sure" he offers.

"Why did you say that to Thomas? About how he sleeps with a nightlight. You must've known he'd hit you for it, so why?"

"Why do birds chirp, or bees pollinate, or small to medium sized fish travel in schools, it's their nature. It's in Thomas's nature to poke fun at the weakest link of whatever chain he's apart of, and in this, case, by his ridiculous standards, it's me. I could say absolutely nothing and he'd still find a reason to shove me around" he lays out the matter as you think it through.

"But how do you know-"

"Because I tried" the words harsher than he means for them to be, "Last year I decided I'd give it a go. I avoided him in the corridors, sat on the opposite side of the room in class, stayed in my dorm as much as possible rather than risk running into him, and nothing changed. Our crossing paths is inevitable, his taunting is inevitable, so I might as well make the most of it"

You open your mouth to say something but no words seem to fit. You stab at the mashed potatoes, leaving the fork standing straight up in the cement like clump.

"Sorry he's a dick"

"Don't be. You've dealt with people like him before-" he catches himself, realizing he's doing the thing again. The freak thing. He tightens his jaw and inches away from you slightly, "I'm guessing, I mean. Only guessing" he tries to correct.

"No yeah, you're right" you reassure him, placing your hand on his shoulder lightly for just a moment, something you've seen people do in movies. It's supposed to make them feel better. He doesn't seem to respond to it. "Teenagers kinda suck" trying to lighten the mood.

Before he can say anything, there's a sharp chime you both recognize as the school bell. Parents look up for the source of the noise, then back to their kids to ask what is to happen next. You and Sherlock just look at each other.

"I'll see you later (y/n)" he nods, standing with his tray of untouched food.

"See you later Sherlock" unable to keep from smiling.

As he walks to the bin to scrape off his tray, his thoughts are far away from the busy intersections of the dining hall. Maybe that's why he doesn't see it coming. But next thing he knows, his dinner tray has been slammed up, food splattering all across his clothes, globs of mashed potatoes clumping in his hair. There is swift laughter as people pass him, some shaking their heads disapprovingly as if he's purposefully spilled food all over himself. He doesn't have to turn around to see who it is that slammed his tray, but finds himself doing it anyways.

Thomas is leaning against Malcom as he laughs uncontrollably, muttering some insult Sherlock's glad he's too far to hear.
He turns back around and begins speedily rushing past people, keeping his gaze trained in front of him.

Like he told you, inevitable.