YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE
I AM SO SORRY FOR THE APPALLING LATENESS
I HAVE A PROPOSITION FOR YOU AT THE END
IT'S CRAZY
BUT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO MAKE IT WORK
Okay, here is your appallingly late only-one-not-two chapter :(
JOHN'S P.O.V
Tap.
Tap. Tap.
Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Ta-
"Quit it, John!" Mike's hand quickly shoved across mine, ceasing my pencil to tap on the table. I muttered an apology, and raked my other hand through my hair. "John? You there?" I was barely listening, my mind occupied and my hand once again unconsciously tapping on the table with the pencil. "Mate, what's up?"
"Dunno, Mike. Just thinking. Sorry."
"Right... okay. Let's get this thing over and done with, I'm already sick of it." Mike and I were partnered together on a French speaking assignment, where we were to do something along the lines of a script between a shop owner and customer. Or something like that. We were in French once again, and everyone was huddled in small groups around tables, with the teacher prowling around the edges, snapping at any fault in the French language.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay, let's get this finished for lunch. Don't exactly want to finish this during lunch." I stretched my hand and cricked my neck, massaging the slightly taut muscles with inked-smudged fingers. "Alright."
A second passed.
"...John?"
I looked up at Mike. "What?"
"You're starting, mate. I've been waiting for 10 seconds... you sure you're okay?" His eyes creased slightly with worry, and I automatically and instinctively tried to erase that worry away.
"Yeah, Mike, I'm grand. Just... thinking. About things. Doesn't matter," I cut off shortly, before I spilled my provoking and intriguing thoughts out loud, "alright. Bonjour."
"Ah, bonjour monsieur!" Mike's voice came out as forced French, but he was obviously trying, and definitely more so than me, so I didn't bother to correct him.
"Uh... comment tu t'appelle?"
"...Wrong one mate. That's 'what're you called?'. You want; 'how are you?'" he said loudly, oblivious to the oncoming danger that was Madame Abel. I cleared my throat, sat up, and put a bit more effort in.
"Alright... uh... comment allez-vous?"
"Tres bien, merci. Et vous?"
"Oui, je--"
"Ah, garcons, let's hear how you're getting on?" Madame Abel's sharp voice cut through my fumbled French, and I instinctively covered the hastily scribbled and completely messy script with my book and hand.
"Uh... okay... um... Bonjour." I looked briefly over at Madame Abel, who was seeming staring intently at me, but I could see that her attention was attracted to a group of rowdy boys behind her.
"Ah, bonjour monsieur!"
"Comment tu-- allez-vous?"
"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?
I took a deep breathe, and started once more.
I lasted about three seconds before I buggered it up and I slammed my head on the keys. This was useless. I couldn't bloody play the piano, and it had hardly worked in shoving the firmly-seated thoughts of Sherlock from my mind.
Before long, almost immediately with nothing to stop them, the past events which had caused this problem had flooded in my mind, and I let them flicker through my mind as each memory once again shifted uncomfortably in my gut.
* * * {a flashbacky type style}
This was a little over a week ago. The day after Anderson and his mates had come knocking, and had left with injuries over 5 minutes later. We, Sherlock and I, were in the lunch hall, eating; well, I was eating, Sherlock was moodily picking at an apple.
I picked up my knife and fork, just about to eat, when I suddenly felt Sherlock place, almost shyly, his hand on my left thigh. I jumped at the contact, and dropped my knife and fork, the hand immediately disappearing, leaving a tingling sensation.
"You alright John?" Greg, who was sitting opposite me next to Mycroft and a couple of friends, looked at me, simultaneously with the rest of the table. I glanced a sneak peak at Sherlock, who indeed was looking away shyly at his apple, his dark eyed gaze needlessly focussing on tearing the stem off.
"Yeah, I'm fine, just a bit of static from the knife," I replied, picking them up again, before deciding to just use the fork, and chucked it into my right hand and stabbing the pasta with it. I nudged myself slightly closer to Sherlock whilst the rest of the table chattered about football scores, and subtly placed my left hand on Sherlock's right thigh.
He jumped up suddenly, his already-abandoned fork clanging against the table as it hooked on his bad strap and fell down, making us all jump violently; me more so than the others. He kept his already-averted gaze locked away from me, barely muttering an excuse, and strided out of the door dropping a book he had shoved in his pocket. My gaze followed him out, confused, when I suddenly caught Mycroft's intense stare. I lowered my gaze, and focussed on eating the rest of my lunch, which now seemed inedible. What just happened?
Minutes later, when I force-fed the remains of my pasta down my throat, I left silently, whilst the group still laughed, but still feeling Mycroft's gaze on my back. I picked up the book which someone had unceremoniously kicked into the wall, brushed the dust off, and made my way to the dorm, where I knew he would be. A hundred questions flooding my mind, pushing each other aside to be asked first, I pushed the dorm room open, expecting Sherlock to be lying on his bed upside down whilst his hands were clasped in a prayer formation under his chin.
My expectations were dashed when I saw no-one there and saw a figure sitting hunched with his knees drawn up on the ledge outside the window. I sighed, and walked to the window.
I stuck my head out the window . "Mind if I join you?". No reply. "I... er... got the book, the one you dropped. In the canteen."
I barely heard his mumbled reply of "thanks", but I accepted it as his way of replying 'yes' to the first question I asked. I awkwardly climbed through the window, leaning on Sherlock slightly as I clumbsily sat on the ledge, legs swinging, and I handed him the book. I turned my head to look at him. His dark chocolate curls stood out against the cloudless blue sky, and I could see every detail of every curl, bounce and strand of hair as the sun dappled against it, seeping through the trees. His head was faced down slightly, as in he were deep in thought.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm perfectly fine John, why are you asking?"
This wasn't going to be easy. Sherlock had reverted to his stubborn self whenever confronted like this, and I decided to go straight to the point.
"You acted a bit strange in canteen today, Sherlock. I was just wondering."
"Wondering what?"
I sighed silently. "If anything had changed. Between us. If you still want to be my-- my--"
"Partner? Boyfriend?"
"Basically, yeah. I just want to know if I've done anything, or if you think you've done anything, or--"
"I haven't done anything."
"Yes, I know, Sherlock, but I was just wondering."
"Wondering what?"
"Sherlock." I stated firmly. I left it there; he knew he was going to have to answer sooner or later, and I wasn't going to budge over from the window opening any time soon.
He kept silent.
I kept silent. I also kept my gaze trained on him, waiting for him to answer.
Four minutes later, I lowered my gaze, and was about to climb back through the window when he replied.
"John... what happened in the canteen, was... I... was... damn it, I don't know!" He ducked his head and growled the last part, almost as a confession. Without warning, he suddenly pushed his head into my neck, and wrapped his arms around my body.
"Hey, it's alright," I replied soothingly, my arms going around his body automatically and holding him, my instinctive caretaker tendencies taking over, "I just wanted to know why you jumped up and left me, alright?"
He stayed quiet for a few seconds. "John, you've got to understand, I'm... I've never been in a relationship before."
"I understand--"
"No John, you don't!" He lifted his head off my shoulder and looked at me in the eyes. There was something in there, something I hadn't registered yet. "John... I... I can't be in a normal relationship. I can't participate in what other people do. I..." He cut himself off, looking at the ground. "I tried it. I tried lying with you on the sofa, doing my homework with you. I tried saying nicer things to you. I even tried putting my hand on your thigh, because I've seen Greg Lestrade do it to my brother, and not even making my brother flinch!" His voice rose higher in volume, and I looked around to find a couple of people looking out of their dorms in the hallway, trying to see who was yelling. However, he had quietened down, and this let me try and sort through what he had said.
"Sherlock... what do you mean?"
He slumped, like a marionette's strings had been cut. He withdrew his arms from around me. "Doesn't matter," he mumbled, his gaze once more on the ground.
"Sher--"
"I said it doesn't matter!" He said harshly, this time looking up at me, and this time I could see the emotions flittering about through his pierced deadpan veil. Love, but it was thickly hidden behind layers of confusion, guilt and sef-anger.
I simply looked at him, then a few seconds later took a ragged breath and climbed backwards through the window. I gathered my bags, and left the room to head to the piano room. However, as I looked back, he was in the same hunched position as before, but this time visibly shaking.
The second incident happened during Chemistry. We were to go into groups of two, and work out an hypothesis for some random experiment, and test it. Normally, I'd pair with Sherlock, who was sat behind me; so when I turned around to pair with Sherlock, I was already saying my idea, even though I knew he'd probably disregard it and put forward his own idea.
"So, how about we use the hydrochloric acid to-- to..." I tailed off, looking at Sherlock, who had partnered himself with Andy something, a guy who had a massive crush on Soo Lin Yao, a girl in his teaching group and basically all his classes. But... I didn't understand; Sherlock despised him. His "ignorance was too much to handle".
I slowly turned around, desperately trying to ignore the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, to find Soo Lin standing in front of me.
"Um... everyone else is taken. Can I... um... go with you?" The pretty Chinese girl blushed slightly, and I nodded silently, moving a couple of desks together so we could work together. We worked quietly, only speaking when we needed to, which suited us both fine. I could tell she was quiet most of the time, but I was only quiet because I was struggling to realise why Sherlock had paired off with Andy. I sneaked a glance at the pair, and Sherlock was yelling at Andy for messing something up; probably the hypothesis. Although he wasn't looking at me, he stopped, stiffened, as if he knew I was glancing at the pair, and slowly turned his head slightly to look at me. However, before his gaze caught mine I hastily turned around, and busied myself with the test tubes and acid measurements. I could feel his intense gaze on me, and still I didn't turn around.
The classroom had fallen silent as each classmate scribbled down their hypothesis as the teacher and teaching assistant paced around the room to make sure people were actually working; if they weren't before, they were now.
A shattering broke the silence, and everyone jumped; Soo Lin gave a shocked audible gasp. Everyone swivelled around to find a broken test tube on the floor, with an unnameable acid splashed on the ground, in front of Andy and Sherlock.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean t-to... um... I'm sorry, I--" Andy stammered out, looking fast and furiously from each and every one of us (not including Soo Lin); but everyone was waiting for Sherlock's reaction.
He was staring at the ground, at the shattered test tube, and I could see his balling his fists, squeezing tight and digging his fingernails into his palm. Then he dropped them. And picked up his bag. And stalked out of the room.
"Mr Holmes! Sherlock Holmes, get back here!" The teacher yelled weakly, but it was no use. He had left, leaving a shattered test tube and a silent classroom.
{still the flashback}
The third incident which registered so deeply in my mind was a simple one. Normal couples argue, and move on. However, Sherlock and I were not a normal couple, not even when we first met, so therefore normal events did not have normal solutions.
After the shattering test-tube event, Sherlock and I didn't act like we were in a normal relationship. For the first day after, we didn't speak to each other; at all. Fed up with this, and desperate to resume our relationship, whilst we were in the dorm one lunch time I decided that instead of speaking to him about what was going on, I asked him about the dead body in the morgue that Molly had asked Sherlock to take a look at. To my surprise, and relief, he responded, and soon we were talking and discussing probable theories about what might have happened. This soon became our generic speaking point everytime we spoke. We'd speak until a silence overcame us, then one of us would leave. I would go to the piano room, whilst I presumed Sherlock went to the morgue. And yet I still had no idea whether we were still in a relationship; it had been over a week when we last kissed. This carried on for the rest of the week, until yesterday.
I was on the staircase making my way to the dorm. I strode to the dorm, taking off my jacket as I went, and started speaking as I shouldered the door open.
"Sherlock, Molly just texted me, there's a body in the... the..."
There was a girl in our domitory.
I stood limply in the doorway, my coat hanging from my hand and my bag sliding to the floor.
"Hello, John." The girl stood up from where she was seated on the bed, and walked towards me. She might have been sixteen, but the way she held herself and her general attitude seemed to raise her age by a few years. She had lusicous black hair that curled into a bun, flawless pale skin and ruby red lips. She seemed to have an aura that said "Don't even think of messing with me, darling", and her dark eyes seemed cunning and unforgiving as she took my bag and jacket from me. "My name is Irene. Irene Adler. And I was here to make your roommate Sherlock Holmes, a deal. Sherlock," She seemed to question, tilting her head to the right, and I followed her gaze to where Sherlock was seated on the chair, looking slightly confused (I noted with shock), "are you willing to take upon that deal?"
He was silent.
She sighed, and dropped my jacket and bag on the bed neatly, and strode towards Sherlock. "A pity. We could've had fun, you know. Adler and Holmes, with Moriarty." The name barely struck me as I watched her slide her hand up Sherlock's cheekbone, and as she bent down and kissed him once on the lips. "Keep thinking, Sherlock. See you around, John." She blew me a kiss, but my attention was more focussed on Sherlock. On how he hadn't reacted when she kissed him. On how his face seemed to be sparsely dotted with red lipstick smudges. On how his normally-buttoned shirt was unbuttoned a couple more than normal. Oh how he was still silent and avoiding my gaze, even when the door slowly clicked shut.
Silence enveloped us. I could feel the flickering pulse in the back of my mind slowing to a stop, as I processed the scene in front of me, quite like how Sherlock would do a crime scene. My gaze lowered slightly, so I wasn't staring him in the face.
"John," I heard him say hoarsely, knowing he was looking at me. I didn't raise my gaze. Instead, I slowly stepped back, and out of the room.
From there, I realised I was going to have to at least one point return to the dorm. I walked to the piano room, like I always had done before, and slowly entered it. I had realised before that I seemed to be the only person who used it, so I locked the door behind me, and sat in the corner.
I didn't know what to think. The scene in front of me threw hundreds of questions at me , but I couldn't even hold the capacity within me to answer even one. So I just sat there, wondering what to do.
An hour later, at around seven pm, I needed the loo. I unlocked the door from the inside, noted it could be locked from both inside and outside, and I almost stumbled over something. I looked down and saw my bag and jacket, lying by the doorway. The same ones I had left in the dorm. I sighed, and stood there for a few moments, just looking at them.
I picked them up and made my way back to the dorm quietly, mentally preparing myself for whatever onslaught Sherlock had in mind. Questions? Fine. Answers? Great. Silence?
I hadn't thought of a reaction to that when I slowly pushed the dorm door open to find it empty. I stood there for a second, and dropped my bag and jacket by my bed, before climbing into my cold bed, fully-clothed, and falling asleep.
I awoke many times in the night to find the bed opposite mine still empty and ready-made.
{back to the future} {or normal times}
Someone knocked on the door. I lifted my head, which I found to be resting on my arms on the piano keys, and looked at the door. It opened slowly, and a figure stood in the light of the doorway, and I found myself wishing it was Sherlock.
"Um..." a young boy of Year 7 asked, "I kind of... booked, this piano...?"
I frowned. I was certain I had written my name on the right room, but I picked up my stuff and left anyway, muttering an apology as I left the room. On my way out of the Music department I checked my name, but sure enough, I had written it, or scrawled it, for the room next to it; a room with a drum kit inside.
I slowly made my way to the dorm, knowing there was virtually nowhere else to go, and I braced myself as I pushed the door open. Sure enough, Sherlock was sitting in the chair, digging his palms into his eyes and his elbows on his knees. However, Mycroft was also in here, standing near him, in the corner. I took a sharp intake of breath, as obviously both boys hadn't noticed me come in, and both looked up at me in shock.
Sherlock looked me right in the eyes, his mouth agape slightly, and the skin around his eyes were red; not from crying, I noted, but from where he was pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes, possibly from fustration, or desperation. I also noted that the soles of his feet were shiny and dry, which indicated he hadn't been outside at all today because it had been raining all morning; also, there seemed to be a couple of abrasions on his hands, mainly around the knuckles, which generally indicated fighting, or punching something hard and fast. There was also a dent in the wall, near his bed, around the midsection but slightly higher. So, in total; he hadn't been outside today, and so had probably stayed in all day worrying about a subject that had been fustrating him for a couple of days, and had punched the wall in said fustration.
I stopped in shock. With a jolt, I realised I had deduced Sherlock the same he would me.
"John... may we have a word outside, please?" Mycroft's voice rang in my ears, and I realised again I had forgotten he was here. I looked at him, and the shock was still lingering in his facial expression as he steered me outside. I guess they thought I'd still be in the piano room, like always. I kept my gaze on Sherlock for a second before Mycroft's arm turned me around quickly and gently pushed me out the door.
"I..." Words which had been formed in my mind mere minutes ago had escaped, and I had no idea what to say.
"John." Mycroft made sure we were standing in front of each other, just outside the door, before speaking properly. "John, before we begin, is there anything you'd like to say?"
I frowned, snapping out of my confusion (a bit). This wasn't going to be some bloody interview.
"Yeah. What's going on?"
"John..."
I cut across him before he could say much more. "I've been waiting for Sherlock to come say something, anything, but before either of us can say something of real use one of us leaves. Now, obviously you two know where I go, but instead of going to the morgue like I presumed, he's obviously been finding residence with you."
"Yes? And?"
"And? I..."
"John," Mycroft cut across me like I had him, "have you been so foolish that you haven't even registered what my little brother was?"
"What he is? What do you--"
"My brother was a sociopath, John."
"What? Why--"
"John. Think. I'm going to tell you the generic characteristics of a sociopath, and you're going to realise that each one referred to Sherlock. No remorse. No sense of morality. No public socialising. Microscopic range of emotions. Manipulative. Extremely intellectual. Now, think. Does any of that remind you of Sherlock?"
I stopped. "Well... a bit. Like the intelligence. And the manipulative bit. But... apart from that... not really, no. How does that make your brother a sociopath?"
Mycroft smirked at me. "John, before, I said "my brother was a sociopath". He displayed every last one of those characteristics. Before he met you."
"I..." I trailed off, slowly realising he was right.
"But," he continued, the smirk becoming slightly harder, "a sociopath obviously can't suddenly stop being one after he meets someone new, meaning you're dating someone who has the sociopathic tendencies."
This wasn't making much sense. "I... but I wasn't sure if we were still... uh... going out... and... I..."
"John, you're dating someone who has the sociopathic tendencies," he repeated, "would dating someone with sociopathic tendencies be the same as dating someone without them?"
"I... oh..."
And then it clicked into place.
I had been trying to fit Sherlock into my ideal and normal boundaries for a normal relationship.
And he had been trying to achieve that. For me.
"Oh..." I breathed out. Sherlock had tried to stop being Sherlock, for me. But obviously he couldn't do it, so he avoided me, not wanting to see my reaction.
I looked at Mycroft, and he looked at me. He pushed the door open, and promptly turned around; probably to head back to his dorm. But as soon as that door opened, it swung open to reveal Sherlock standing right by it, looking slightly startled that he had been caught in the act of listening in. Without thinking I launched forward, and hugged him like the idiot I was.
"I'm sorry I was a dick," I said muffled, into his chest. His arms, which had been thrown back in surprise, hesitantly but then quickly wrapped themselves around, growing tighter.
"John, you weren't the dick, I--"
"Don't even say that," I said furiously, although the effect was slightly ruined by the fact I was muffled into his chest, "you only did what you had to, and I only made it worse infinitly. I'm sorry." My throat caught for some unknown reason, and I felt like a moron.
"John, you have to understand that I can't give you the things you want. In a relationship. I--"
"I don't care."
"Jo--"
"I don't care."
He stopped speaking, and didn't say anything for a few seconds. Just when I thought he might push away, he rested his head in the crook of my neck, and breathed out. "I'm sorry."
My head still muffled in his chest, I said, "Don't you dare apologise, Sherlock, I--"
"Actually, John, I apologised to myself, as I reminded myself of the fact I partnered with Andy Galbraith. Out of all the people in the chemistry class, I chose the most ignorant and most liable to break anything, his bones included."
Out of all the sadness that had filled my body for the past week, I could feel a spark of laughter begin rolling up inside me, and before long I was giggling like a girl into Sherlock's chest, after hearing him snap at me like his normal self. Soon after, I could feel his body vibrating with chuckles, proving my laughter to be infectious, and we stayed clutching each other and giggling like schoolgirls for God knows how long.
IMPORTANT NOTICE: IF YOU, THE READER, ARE READING THIS, YOU MUST READ THIS!
The next two chapters in this story are two very big, very confusing multifandom chapters, with everything ranging from Doctor Who to Supernatural to John Green. [everything is explained in the next chapter]
If you'd like to skip these multifandom chapters, you're more than welcome to skip them! Just choose chapter 24, as nothing in the next two chapters affects the overall plot!
If you ARE going to read them, it's vital you also read the bolded text at the beginning, so you don't come running to me crying about how the author suddenly added some complicated storylines involving fandoms you're not in!
I am also not going to put in any more fandom cameos after this chapter. A) The next two chapters are enough for a lifetime! B) Bow ties. You know what I'm getting at. If you don't, read the entirety of the comments section for chapter 11.
That's all. c: