And Together We Fell (prev. "Teenlock") - An AU Sherlock/Johnlock Fanfic

Chapter 21

"Ah, je suis grande, merci! Et toi?"

"Genile... genile..."

So far so good.

Mike cleared his throat. "Que voulez-vous?"

Shit.

"Um... Je voudrais... voudrais... une cheval--" No that's horse "no-- I mean, non, uh... je voudrais un chien. S'il vous plait."

"Un chien? Bien... bien... qui est-il destine?"

I struggled to translate it. However, after a few seconds the only answer was 'What?' Then, just as Mike nudged me, I realised it was 'Who is it for?'

"Uh..." My already otherwise-occupied mind trawled through the scarce area that was French, desperate to find an answer for this so I wouldn't have to stay in at lunch, "mon petit ami...?" BOYFRIEND John that means BOYFRIEND "I-I mean ma petite amie. Ye-- oui. Ma petite amie. Je--"

"Okay, Monsieur Watson, that's enough for now," her voice cut short of my barely-French ramblings, and carefully lifted my messy hardly-legible script, from under my book, instead of Mike's slightly better script. I could feel my face flush and I struggled to fight it down, its reasons for its existence unbeknownst to me. "Well, I can say that you've done more than the others..." She glanced at the laughing groups, and narrowed her squinting eyes, "but not much more than that. Anyway, you're allowed to leave. You've got 5 minutes, spend it wisely, especially you, Monsieur Watson, on refining your Français." And without another word, she turned on her heels and berated/yelled at the rest of the class. Mike glanced at me, and mimed wiping his forehead of sweat with emphasis.

The rest of the five minutes I consequently did not spend "refining my Français", but instead thinking about the same subject that had crossed and firmly stayed seated in my mind for the past couple of days.

An unusual subject that was uncomfortable in my mind.

Sherlock.

He had been avoiding me.

* * *

I strode across the courtyard, the situation rising in my head whether to run back to the dorm, where Sherlock would undoubtedly already be there, reading or writing; or whether to run to the piano room, like I had the lunch time I'd needed to leave because I was so annoyingly (at the time) infatuated with Sherlock that I had needed to clear my head. I shouldered the front doors open, and jogged up the stairs. I could see the dorm landing on the left just up ahead, and I decided to just head to my dorm.

I carried on walking up the stairs.

I reached the music department, and found yet again the piano room was booked. Not really looking, I scribbled an unintelligible name down on the paper stapled to the wall, just in case Sherlock came looking ('why would he?' I reminded myself), and I shouldered the door open. I threw my bag to the side of the room and I sat down, my fingers stretching themselves. I coughed, determined to get everything out of my mind, and I placed my fingers on the worn keys, and played the first piece to come into my head.

Well, or tried to play.

The first keys sounded wrong, and I immediately stopped. So I tried again. And it still sounded wrong. I tried once more, and it still sounded wrong. I slammed the palms of my hands on the keys, creating a short-lived cacophony, and tried again, realising finally they were indeed the right notes. So why hadn't they sounded right?