Chapter 1 - DONE

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John Watson swayed from side to side, clutching his laptop bag as the people on the train continuously bumped and hit into him without a care in the world. He hated the train. The continuous feeling of walls being pressed against you, leaving you barely able to breath and with the thoughts "sweet Jesus will this ever end" screaming through your mind even though you know it's going to arrive at the stop in half an hour but apparently time slows down when there's an extraordinarily sweaty man approximately 2 and a half inches from your nose. The only reason he had to go on it was because his father said he was 'old enough to ride a train on his own, so man up and get a grip'. Funny thing, coming from the man who said John had the mental age of 5.

Getting back onto the point at hand, he was currently being spectacularly thrown against the people in the near proximity every time the train crashed through a corner. He looked around, trying to find a seat, which was near damn impossible.

Just as John gave a great sigh of desperation (honestly, why the everlasting fuck did he decided to get on the train), his phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pocket, and flipped it open.

To: John

From: Sarah

Hey John, I just thought I'd be the first person to tell you this, but I'm moving to a boarding school, and we won't see each other for a long time.

I think this is best for us.

Love, Sarah x

Right, thanks Sarah. Rubbing in John's face yet again about how she thought he wasn't paying enough attention to him. A classic year-long romance with a clean ending a fortnight ago. Well. Clean-ish. He barely shoved it in his pocket when it buzzed again.

To: John

From: Harry

i'll pick u up at 7:30ish with clara and we'll take u to ur new school. hope alls well, love H xxx

John sighed. He reckoned that Harry realised she'd been ignoring him a bit recently; he couldn't blame her. She'd gotten back together with Clara (who was actually quite nice, just had fantastic temper), and they'd spent so much time together like "new" couples do, leaving him alone. At home. With his father. John was pretty sure that's when she realised; she'd ring the landline and they'd talk for about an hour, and eventually she even gave him her phone. A new phone that John couldn't exactly handle with all the stupid apps, but a phone nevertheless. John awkwardly typed out a small reply, before pushing it deep into his pocket. He close his eyes, trying to make the next half hour glide past quickly, but to only open them once again as a shoulder knocked violently into him. He struggled to regain his footing, but again someone's briefcase knocked his hand, the sudden movement causing John to drop his laptop bag on the floor. John's heart stopped for half a second, the dull thunk resounding in his ears as it clattered loudly onto the floor. John reached out his hand to pick it up, his fingers just about curling the straps when someone kicked it accidentally, skittering the laptop bag further across, this time right under some newspaper-reading idiot.

John glared scathingly at the laptop bag, furious and pissed off that barely 15 minutes in and already his laptop could be damaged and he'd have to wait until everyone got off until he could pick it back up. He attempted to turn his back on it, resigning himself to wait the remainder of the train trip in anger.


No sooner than a few seconds later, a slender hand touched John's shoulder. Frowning, he twisted around to find said hand holding out the laptop bag as close to John's face as possible. John peered around the black narrow bag to see black curls and cold blue eyes. John reckoned they were probably cold because he hadn't even taken the bag yet. He reached up and cautiously grabbed the bag back from the man (or boy? John wasn't sure, he had one of those faces) nodding his head like an idiot and mumbling a "thanks". His eyes followed the person until he reached his seat (good God he must have been lucky to grab one by the doors) and lifted up a newspaper across his vision, making John realise that this was the "some newspaper-reading idiot" his bag skittered under to.

He watched the boy for a few more seconds, before turning back around, repositioning his grip on the bag handle with the running the question "when the hell am I going to get there" running through his mind, before some dickhead surreptitiously nudged into John, pushing him further into the loud American tourists and with even less room to breathe.

John sighed.

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