Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/102292.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_(2009), Sherlock_Holmes_(Downey_films)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Boarding_School
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-21 Words: 39463
****** Roll Away Your Stone ******
by foxxcub
Summary
     Seventeen-year-old John Watson is set to finish his final year of
     school with a flourish, until the headmaster assigns John as a
     "tutor" to an arrogant, yet brilliant new student named Sherlock
     Holmes. Holmes is not about to be put in his place by this popular
     rugby football player with the too-blue eyes, and John isn't going to
     let this impulsive fifteen-year-old get away with anything. Neither
     expects to become friends, but a series of unexpected events and a
     possible murder mystery bring them closer together than either of
     them thought possible.
roll away your stone
i'll roll away mine
together we can see what we will find
 
 

                                  September
 
The train platform was dull chaos, full of last-minute passengers struggling
with their luggage and well-wishers seeing off their loved ones as the guard
called out ten minutes until departure.
Holmes kept his gaze skyward, his mouth pulled into a tight frown, arms tucked
behind his back. His knee was in a constant state of motion, the bouncing
becoming more erratic with each passing second. He hadn't looked John in the
eyes since they'd arrived at the station.
John took a deep breath, then leaned close to say, "I've got to get on board,
Holmes."
He didn't reply, his frown deepening until it was almost a sneer.
"You know it won't be so terrible. I'm less than an hour away by train, and
I'll be home for the holidays before you know it." John's hand twitched at his
side. He knew the last thing Holmes wanted in this moment was to be touched,
but he hated that Holmes intentionally kept his hands hidden.
"It won't be the same," Holmes finally whispered, so softly John nearly missed
it over the din of the platform.
John sighed and let his hand rest on Holmes' shoulder. "I'll be closer than I
ever was this summer."
Holmes flinched slightly but didn't pull away. "I'll go live with Mycroft,
he'll put me up as long as I find a way to pay him rent, and then I can visit
you whenever—"
One more year, that's all Holmes had left at Leighton School. John had spent
the whole summer trying to convince him that a year wasn't anything at all,
that he'd survive on his own while John began studying medicine at the
University of London. But Holmes had other ideas.
"Holmes." John stepped a little closer, close enough that he could whisper into
Holmes' ear. Holmes was flushed, glaring at the station roof as if it had done
him an unforgivable wrong. John whispered his name again, and it wasn't
improper, their being so near to one another, what with the crowd of passengers
all around them. "Go back to Leighton, for me. Please. Your brother's rooms can
wait."
Holmes eyes slipped shut, his mouth twisted to the side. "I want to come with
you," Holmes said, his voice breaking quietly, which in turn broke something
inside of John.
He took Holmes by the arm and pulled him onto the train, into the closest
unoccupied compartment. He shut the door, locked it, pulled the shades down,
then cupped Holmes' face in his hands. Holmes went very stiff, his eyes tightly
closed.
"I'll write to you," John whispered, kissing the corner of Holmes' mouth, his
chin, brushing his thumbs over Holmes' cheekbones. "I'll write to you and tell
you all the trials and tribulations of becoming a doctor. I'll tell you stories
that will make you roll your eyes at my stupid romantic ideals and want to
immediately write back and tell me so. I'll write so often you'll be hard-
pressed to keep up with our correspondence." He paused until Holmes opened his
eyes, which were were suspiciously damp. "I won't forget you, Holmes."
Holmes made a soft, choked sound and tangled his hands in the front of John's
blazer and tipped his face up to finally let John truly kiss him. For one long,
heady minute, their lips pressed against one another's, and for a moment they
rested, sharing breath. John felt as if he knew every facet of Holmes' mouth:
the minute gap between his upper front teeth, the way his lower lip dipped in
the centre, the slight hint of tobacco on his tongue. He knew it all, and yet
he memorized every detail as they clung to each other. It would be weeks,
perhaps even months, before he'd get the chance again.
From behind the closed compartment door, the guard's muffled voice gave out the
final boarding call.
It was Holmes who broke out the kiss, stumbling back a bit and wiping the back
of his hand over his lips—and, more discreetly, his eyes. John told himself not
be hurt by the gesture, that Holmes was simply loathe to appear anything but
composed in public. He waited for Holmes to give him his customary smirk, but
he kept his gaze averted once more, head bowed, his messy dark hair in his
eyes.
"Safe travels," Holmes mumbled, and he sniffed quietly.
John couldn't help himself, he dipped his head down and claimed Holmes' mouth
one more time in a biting, desperate kiss, wishing he could halt time and have
Holmes in his arms for as long as he liked. Holmes whimpered, sucked sharply at
John's lip, then gasped, "Watson, I have to go, the train is leaving." He
sounded so very young in that moment, and so terribly sad.
John pressed their foreheads together, his hand cupping the back of Holmes'
head, fingers tangled in his hair. "Go on, then."
Holmes blew out a breath, then suddenly grabbed John's hand, threading their
fingers together. He brought their clasped hands to his lips, kissed John's
knuckles, and fled the compartment without looking back.
John stood at the window and watched with a heavy heart as the train gradually
pulled out of the station. He couldn't see Holmes on the platform, but he knew
he was there and would stay until the train faded from sight.
 
                                       ~
 

                         September, one year earlier
 
It was late afternoon, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon. It was
the third day of term and already John was exhausted, having managed only a
dozen hours of sleep since returning to Leighton. He'd forgotten how much he'd
missed running himself ragged on the football pitch. The world could be falling
down around him, but all he needed was a good match rigorous enough to drench
him in sweat to leave him gasping and happy.
The world wasn't falling down that day, but John felt as if it were resting
squarely on his shoulders—prefect duties, lessons and exams, and the constant
reminder of university looming left him feeling harried and on edge. And the
year had barely begun.
Pull yourself together, this is what you wanted, he thought to himself as he
took the long way back to Haverford House after the match, scrubbing a hand
through his sweat-damp hair. He tipped his head back and let the dying sunlight
beat against his face, warm and soothing. The grounds of Leighton were quiet,
much to John's relief. He loved the school grounds when they were empty, the
gentle silence that always seem to surround ancient buildings. There were old
tales of Cavaliers taking shelter on the lands he walked upon, hundreds of
years ago, and sometimes John liked to pretend he was one of them, seeking
refuge from the Roundheads.
A sudden shout jerked him from his idle fantasy. Another shout followed, and it
soon became apparent that the voices belonged to more than one person, a
gradual layering of aggressive cat calls, one after another. It sounded like a
fight.
Then John saw them: four boys he recognized as members of the upper sixth like
himself, one of whom was giving a fierce beating to a fifth, slighter boy he
didn't know. The others had circled around them, cheering on the larger of the
two. It looked to be a terribly unfair fight; the bigger boy, Cavanaugh, looked
to have nearly two stone on his opponent.
Somehow, the smaller fellow managed to pull his fist back and punch Cavanaugh
squarely in the eye while simultaneously landing a knee to his abdomen.
Cavanaugh cried out, instantly collapsing on the ground, and the boy scrambled
to his feet, his lip split badly and bleeding down his chin.
"Is that all you've got?" he yelled at them, grinning like it was all a game.
He didn't even bother to wipe the blood away. "I thought we were getting
serious."
Cavanaugh's friend Jenkins snarled, "You're nothing but filthy rubbish," before
tackling the boy back to the ground. The other two followed, kicking the boy in
the ribs again and again as Jenkins pounded his face, or attempted to. The boy
fought back with everything he had.
John stood rooted to the spot, fascinated by the spectacle. It was obvious the
boy was younger, probably a fourth or fifth former, and by all rights he should
not have been holding his own against against four sixth formers. But Cavanaugh
was still rolling on the ground clutching his stomach, and soon Jenkins was
crying out and cupping his nose, blood spurting out between his fingers. John
could see that the boy's knuckles were covered in blood, and his lip was
getting worse, but there was an almost satisfied glint in his eyes.
Enough of this, John thought. He was a prefect, for god's sake. It was his duty
to stop this fight, not look on like an enthralled spectator.
"Oy, break it up!" he yelled.
The four sixth formers slowly got to their feet. They looked only slightly
sheepish.
"Sorry about that, Watson," Cavanaugh mumbled. "Just having a bit of fun with
our new friend here." He glared down at the boy, who was leaning back on his
hands, panting, legs sprawled out as if he didn't have a care in the world.
"Well, your fun is officially over. Get out of here, or you'll all be banned
from games for a month."
They grumbled under their breath as they slowly turned back towards their
house. The boy, however, stayed stretched out on the grass, smirking after
them.
"You'll need to head to the san for that," John said, gesturing to his lip.
"And I wouldn't be surprised if you had a cracked rib or two, what with all the
kicking."
The boy snorted. He finally wiped the sleeve of his shirt over his chin,
oblivious to the blood staining his cuff. The skin under his left eye was
beginning to bruise. "It's nothing," he murmured. "I've had worse."
"Really? You make a habit out of being outnumbered?" John sighed and crouched
down beside him to get a better look at the damage. "What's your name?"
"I make a habit out of winning, and none of your business." He flinched away
when John tried to reach out and tilt his chin closer.
"It is, actually. I'm a prefect."
"You're not my prefect—Watson, is it?" He smirked again, then rolled neatly to
his feet. He didn't move like someone with a cracked rib. "I can handle myself,
thank you. You needn't have intervened."
"Yes, you came out of that bout completely unscathed," John said as he stood
up.
The boy rolled his eyes and shoved his dark hair out of his face. He was
dressed in his uniform, but everything about him was rumpled, right down to his
untied shoelaces. He rubbed his sleeve over his chin once more, smearing blood
everywhere. "Trophies," he replied ruefully, but the playful bravado faded from
his voice for a moment.
"Look, if there's one thing you need to learn about Leighton, it's that they
don't tolerate fighting. You will get expelled."
"You act as if I'm new."
"You are," John said matter-of-factly.
"How can you be so certain?" He looked haughty, as if John reading him so
easily were offensive.
"You asked my name. Everyone who's not a first former knows who I am." It was
John's turn to smirk.
The boy tipped his bloodied chin up, like he was attempting to compensate for
the good three inches John had over him. "Maybe I'm not as enthralled with good
Samaritan sixth former cap holders as the rest of this school," he said with a
mean little sneer.
John huffed, rubbing his sweaty cheek against the material of his jersey. He'd
never been made to feel self-conscious in it before. "Your lip needs stitches.
I've got a sewing kit in my study, if you're going to be bloody stubborn about
the sanatorium." He didn't know why he was being so generous, when it was clear
the boy wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, but he simply couldn't bring
himself to walk away and leave him in this condition.
The boy hesitated, looking genuinely conflicted for a moment. Then he
straightened his shoulders and said, "Holmes."
John blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"My name, it's Holmes." Then he took off towards Haverford House, calling over
his shoulder, "You're still not my prefect."
 
                                       ~
 
The common room was fairly quiet for a late afternoon; only a handful of sixth
formers were curled in front of the fire with their books. One or two glanced
up when John came trailing in behind Holmes.
He grimaced and grabbed Holmes by the arm. "What the hell do you think you're
doing? This isn't your house," he hissed, blushing.
Holmes shrugged. "Your study is on the first floor, is it not?"
"That's hardly the point. I'd rather not have to explain why I'm traipsing
after a fifth former who looks like he's been put through the wringer."
"Lower sixth," Holmes replied casually, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and
carefully preserved distinctive stained glass windows that were the defining
feature of Haverford's common room.
John laughed. "You? I don't think so. You're only, what, fifteen?" He tugged on
Holmes' arm again, leading him toward his study at the far end of the hall,
ignoring the fact that Holmes' guess was correct.
"Yes, but my previous school thought it best to move me ahead a form. I tend to
bore easily."
John had never heard of anyone at Leighton skipping an entire form. He held the
door of his room open for Holmes and wondered how brilliant one needed to be to
be placed in lower sixth form at fifteen. If Holmes was so clever, why was he
getting into fistfights with boys twice his size?
He pointed to a chair and ordered, "Sit," as he dug around in his desk for the
sewing kit, but Holmes continued to roam about the room, peering at his books
and football trophies.
"You have a lot of medical journals," he said thoughtfully. "They don't quite
go with the football memorabilia."
"Yes, well, I plan to be a doctor one day," John said, pointedly ignoring the
rest of Holmes' comment. He held up the needle and thread. "Now sit. I can't
stitch you if you're mobile." He nudged Holmes toward the chair, and he finally
he did as he was told.
"A doctor," Holmes murmured. "I should have known."
"Will you please stop talking for five minutes?" John huffed.
"Sorry." Holmes tipped his chin up, closing his eyes and going very still as
John held his chin steady. The blood was drying on his skin, but John could
make out the split clearly. He'd only stitched up one other person, a year ago
when his team captain accidentally took a foot to the mouth during practice,
but that had been considerably more complicated. He placed Holmes' stitches
together in a quick, even row, four total, and was finished in less than
fifteen minutes.
"There," he said, tying off the end of the thread. "You should be able to take
these out in a week or so. Until then, no more fights."
Holmes smirked. "Certainly," he replied.
"Why did they attack you? Did you provoke them?"
"Does it even matter? It's over, my wounds have been tended to, and the rest is
nothing but a memory."
John narrowed his eyes. "It matters to me. If you were attacked, the others
need to be punished."
Something sad and almost wistful flickered in Holmes' dark brown eyes. "And if
the attack was justified? What then, prefect?"
"I can't imagine any reason—"
"Of course you can't." Holmes jumped to his feet and scrubbed a dirty hand
through the mess of his hair. "Anyway, thank you." He ducked his head almost
shyly, touching his lip with a tentative finger, and left the room without
another word.
John stood staring at the chair vacated by Holmes for another minute, trying to
figure out what had just happened. Finally, he sighed and tossed his needle and
thread back into his desk drawer. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than a hot
bath.
 
                                       ~
 
His ribs ached the following day, but Holmes did his best to ignore the pain
and act as if he was completely unaware that his lower lip was full of stitches
and his eye was black. He'd received a few wary yet curious glances from people
in his house, but no one had bothered to ask, not even Weatherly, their
prefect. Holmes wasn't surprised; he'd been mostly ignored since the day he'd
arrived at Leighton. Since the alternative was mockery and fisticuffs, he
didn't actually mind.
For the millionth time, Holmes found himself wishing desperately that Mycroft
had not left and taken up residence in London. Mycroft understood him in a way
no one else could or probably ever would. He was the closest thing to a friend
Holmes had.
Not that Holmes wanted to make friends at Leighton. The students seemed
uniformly tedious and insipid. It wasn't any different from Dryden, his
previous school, although Holmes had a feeling Leighton would be even less
forgiving of his science experiment gone awry. One tiny explosion and Holmes
had been given his walking papers. It wasn't as if he'd intended to harm the
headmaster's dog—he'd just made a very convenient test subject.
 
He had spent the entire summer trying to convince his father that he didn't
need to be in school, that the education system was dull and pointless, that
the material was useless in the real world. Holmes knew, without a doubt, that
he could learn more working as an apprentice in a blacksmith's shop or baking
scones in a bakery than he could suffering through lessons every day.
Unfortunately, his father did not see it that way and, come autumn, Holmes was
once again chafing in school ties and uncomfortable trousers and hating
everyone around him.
He was too sore to eat anything, so instead of subjecting himself to the
refectory, he tucked himself under a tree at the edge of the quad with his copy
of On the Origin of Species—Mycroft had sent him the monograph a few weeks ago,
insisting that Holmes read it at once. It was indeed a fascinating read,
although it depressed Holmes severely to know that such cutting-edge science
would never be taught within these school walls.
He was deep into a chapter on genetic variation when a football landed squarely
in his lap. Holmes jerked back, startled, his book falling to the ground as a
boy ran up to him. Holmes vaguely recognized him from his history lessons.
"Sorry about that," the boy said, smiling sheepishly as he held out his hand
for the ball. "Poor chap has terrible aim."
"I do not, shut up, Pierce, I wasn't even paying atten—" The boy's friend ran
up behind him, but stopped short the second he met Holmes' eyes.
Holmes despised the very faint hint of a blush he felt warming his cheeks. It
wasn't as if he expected Watson to remember his name, although his face would
be a little hard to forget. He had rather hoped he wouldn't have to run into
him again, because Watson epitomized everything Holmes hated about school: he
was rich, handsome, athletic, universally adored, and most likely mindlessly
following his father into the medical field—Holmes doubted he'd ever been
inside a real hospital. He probably thought Leighton was the real world.
This didn't change the fact that Holmes still couldn't stop himself from
colouring when Watson's eyes flared in acknowledgement and genuine concern. His
eyes were far too blue, which Holmes decided irrationally in that moment he
hated.
"Hello, Holmes," he said. He was flushed, gasping slightly from running across
the quad to catch up with Pierce. "How's your lip today?" He ran a hand
absently through his hair, causing his fringe to stick up at odd angles.
Holmes shrugged and picked his book up. "Serviceable," he replied blandly. He'd
lost his spot in the chapter, but he kept his eyes on the page.
"Good." There was an awkward silence, and in his peripheral vision Holmes saw
Pierce start to edge away. He heard a whispered exchange, and then both boys
hurried off.
Holmes glanced up in time to see the way the sun caught the golden highlights
of Watson's hair as he ran across the quad, laughing when Pierce threw the ball
at him.
Holmes glared down at his book, unaware that his fingers were ghosting gently
over the stitches in his lip.
 
                                       ~
 
"You realise he's a a criminal—an arsonist, right?"
John paused at the door to his Latin lessons. "Who?"
Pierce smirked and jerked his chin over his shoulder. "That stitched-up thing
by the tree, who do you think?" He laughed and gave John's shoulder an
affectionate jab. "You honestly patched him up, like he's a stray who wandered
in from the fields."
It made John uncomfortable to talk about Holmes for some odd reason. Perhaps it
had something to do with the irritation he still felt from being all but
dismissed by Holmes earlier, as if Holmes barely recognized him. It shouldn't
have dug at him like it did—John didn't usually care what ill-tempered fifth-
formers-disguised-as-sixth-formers thought of him, but Holmes owed him at least
a bit of gratitude.
"What do you mean he's an arsonist?" John asked, and he certainly did not try
to glance over Pierce's shoulder to see if Holmes was still against the tree.
"That's why he's at Leighton—he set fire to a classroom at his last school, and
no other school would take him. Rumor has it he nearly killed a pupil."
Immediately, John thought back to the fight, and Holmes' comment about the
attack being justified. "You're certain?"
Pierce nodded. "And his father bribed the headmaster to move Holmes up a form,
and I'm sure he did the same here. From what I've seen, he isn't that
brilliant."
It's only the fourth day of term, Watson thought, but instead said, "He told me
he bores easily."
"Of course he did! No one in their right mind admits something like that!"
Pierce clapped John on the shoulder. "Really, Watson, you should be a bit more
discerning about the company you keep."
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of rumpled dark hair, and he
looked up just in time to see Holmes duck down a corridor, nose still buried in
his book.
"Then I wouldn't be able to keep company with you," John replied with a smirk.
"We're still on for practice later, yeah?"
"If you're up for it," Pierce drawled, laughing when John made a half-hearted
attempt to tackle him.
 
                                       ~
 
"Mr. Holmes, I will only ask you once more to please explain yourself." The
headmaster, Mr. Hollister, steepled his fingers just below his chin, his
glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose.
Holmes slumped further in his chair, hands fisted in his lap. He had no wish to
explain himself, only to proclaim at high decibels that everything was wrong
and he did not belong in the headmaster's office. He twisted his mouth to one
side, glaring at the floor.
"Mr. Holmes, I sincerely don't want to expel you only two weeks into the term,
but I simply cannot abide this egregious behaviour."
He bit the inside of his lip to keep his angry retort of I'm not the only
person behaving egregiously at bay. It wasn't fair, he shouldn't be here—
"Explain yourself, or I'm sending a telegram to your father first thing in the
morning."
He didn't fear his father, but he wasn't prepared to add to his father's
already unending litany of how Holmes was turning out to be quite a
disappointment. He hated being compared to Mycroft and found wanting.
"I was merely telling Mr. Barringer—," Holmes said his classmate's name with
sneer, "—that Darwin's theory of natural selection is substantiated and should
be treated as such."
"You called him 'an ignorant cock mongrel' and threw a book at his head,"
Hollister sighed.
Holmes sniffed, acutely aware of the heat in his cheeks. "I missed," he mumbled
to the floor.
The headmaster slipped his glasses off and rubbed wearily at the bridge of his
nose. Holmes knew that expression, had seen it on his father's face on numerous
occasions. He hugged his arms to his chest and waited for the inevitable
lecture.
"Young man, I have no doubt that you possess a brilliant mind," Hollister
finally said quietly, glancing up at Holmes with what appeared to be sympathy.
"I don't regret my decision to allow you to enroll at Leighton after the
unfortunate incident at Dryden, and I don't regret allowing you to continue
into the lower sixth despite your age. You have a spark about you, something
unique, and I fully believe you could flourish at Leighton."
Holmes shifted in his chair. "But?" he asked.
"But you are reckless and arrogant and lack all sense of direction and
discipline and that, I fear, is unacceptable. You've had two outbursts this
week alone, and Mr. Shingler is threatening to suspend you from his classroom."
"Biology is a ridiculous subject, anyway. I could take chemistry instead."
Hollister narrowed his eyes. "We're not here to debate your timetable, Mr.
Holmes. I've decided to assign you a mentor for the rest of the year, someone
to give you guidance. He'll tutor you three evenings a week and report directly
to me on your progress."
Holmes' mouth fell open as he sputtered, "Tutor me? You just acknowleged that
I'm brilliant! What possible need could I have for a tutor?" His heart began to
race. This was absurd, this was utterly ludicrous.
"It's not your studies I'm most concerned with, Mr. Holmes." Hollister sat back
in his chair with an air of finality. "Have you met Mr. Watson, Haverford
House's prefect?"
The sound of Holmes' stomach plummeting into his shoes could probably be heard
for miles. "I—I suppose so." He hadn't seen Watson in over week, not since that
day in the quad, and he liked it that way.
"Wonderful. I'm meeting with him later this afternoon to discuss your
situation."
He didn't expect the sudden flood of humiliation at the thought of Watson
sitting in this very chair, listening to Hollister elucidate in great detail on
the spectacular disaster that was Sherlock Holmes. Of course, Watson would nod
along, chiming in with a put-upon sigh, "Yes, and I pulled him from a fist
fight just last week. He bled all over my best jersey."
Holmes wanted to curl up and die. "May I go now?" he asked quietly.
"You may. But I expect your full cooperation in this endeavour, Mr. Holmes. I
believe Mr. Watson will be of great assistance in helping set you on the right
path."
Holmes didn't reply, only ripped his tie off and stormed out of Hollister's
office.
 
                                       ~
 
Of all the possible things that could have occurred during his final year of
school, being forced to mentor an ungrateful brat of a self-professed genius
was not something John expected. He'd visibly deflated in front of Mr.
Hollister when he'd been informed that he would be "giving moral and academic
guidance" to Holmes three nights a week.
"But...sir, my prefect duties, all my football matches—"
"I know your timetable is quite full, but I'm only asking for an hour at most.
If your matches do not allow it, you're more than welcome to meet with Mr.
Holmes at the weekends."
Oh yes, because Holmes would be thrilled to spend his Saturdays with John. He
could only imagine the tantrum Holmes had when he was informed about this.
He'd left Hollister's office filled with dread. John had got the distinct
impression that no one forced Holmes to doing anything he didn't want to do,
and if John hated the thought of spending three nights a week trying to
transform Holmes into a well-mannered young man, Holmes was likely incensed by
the notion. John had no doubt that Holmes would be determined to make his life
quite difficult.
John waited until that afternoon to finally approach Holmes about a schedule.
"Just get it over with," he mumbled to himself as he stood outside Holmes'
classroom. A minute later, the door opened to let loose a stream of boys.
Naturally, Holmes was one of the last ones to leave, and he appeared deeply
engrossed in a small notebook full of handwritten scribbles.
John took a deep breath and called out, without too much apprehension,
"Holmes."
His head jerked up, eyes wide with surprise before they narrowed into a
defensive glare. "Come to set me on the path to righteousness already?" Holmes
said. He snapped his notebook shut and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. He
didn't pause for a second to let John speak to him, much to his irritation.
"We need to figure this out!" he called after Holmes. "There's no getting
around this, and you know it."
That was enough to make Holmes stop. His shoulders slumped, and he tipped his
head back, as if cursing the sky. "What do you suggest?" he asked, looking over
his shoulder at John.
"Come to my study and we'll talk. I won't even make you stay the whole hour."
Holmes mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "Of course he'd
keep time," before he gave a great sigh and nodded at John to lead way.
 
                                       ~
 
This time Holmes didn't wander John's study in idle curiosity. He followed John
through the door with an air of resignation, made a beeline for the closest
chair, and dropped his books onto the floor. Holmes pulled his legs to his
chest and hooked his chin over his knees, looking up at John as if expecting
some sort of chastising lecture.
John sighed and dropped into the opposite chair. "Look, neither of us wants to
do this."
"That is the probably by far the most accurate thing you've said all day,
Watson."
He resisted making a comment about how it was Holmes' fault they were in this
predicament. "So, in light of our feelings about this arrangement, I suggest a
compromise. I have football on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, and I'm not
missing that for you."
Holmes' smirk grew a bit more nasty. "How very generous of you."
John rolled his eyes. "Try not to be too devastated." He got up and went to
rummage in his desk drawer. "I'm giving you a key to my study. You can use it
at any time in the evenings while I'm at my matches, and I'll simply tell
Hollister that you're being very cooperative and showing great progress." He
held the key out to Holmes, who looked at it warily.
"What do you want from me in return?" Holmes asked carefully.
"Don't make me a liar," John replied.
"How do you know I won't fuck off and stay in my own study?"
"I don't. But would you really rather sit in silence with me three nights of
the week?"
Holmes plucked the key from Watson's hand. "No," he mumbled.
"I didn't think so. Pierce was wrong, you are actually brilliant."
"Yes, I'm sure your ruffian friends are quite astute."
"At least I have friends," John replied without thinking. A lighting-quick
flash of hurt flickered in Holmes' eyes before disappearing completely,
replaced with an razor-sharp look of contempt.
"What did Pierce tell you?" Holmes asked, darkness underlying the casual tone
of his voice. He unfolded one leg and let it stretch out in a lazy half-sprawl.
"That I'm a fugitive, wanted for murder? That I framed my own brother for
larceny? Or maybe he told you all about how I buggered half the students at
Dryden."
Heat flooded John's cheeks. "He—he didn't tell me anything—"
"If the population of Leighton isn't gossiping about each other, they're
gossiping about me. I'm a new student who transferred from his previous school
under mysterious circumstances, not to mention a sixth former who should still
be in the fifth form. I'm destined for the rumour mill." He brought his arms up
over his head, grabbed the back of the chair and arched his back like a cat.
"So which was it, Watson? I'm dying to know."
For a moment John was distracted by the sight Holmes made. He'd never seen
anyone sit in a chair the way Holmes did, his folded leg nearly draped over the
arm, thighs slightly spread. He looked—John wasn't quite sure how to describe
it, but it was disconcerting.
"Fine." John crossed his arms and tipped his chin up haughtily. "If you must
know, he told me you'd burned down a classroom at Dryden and nearly killed
another student in the process. And that your father is bribing Hollister to
keep you in sixth form."
There was nothing but silence between them, and John found himself holding his
breath and watching every facet of Holmes' expression, waiting for him to
either confirm or deny. Or perhaps throw a punch.
Instead, Holmes got to his feet and went to the window of the study, promptly
lifting the sash. He pulled a small silver cigarette case from his blazer
pocket and waved it in John's direction. "Do you mind?" he asked, voice
completely neutral as he took out a perfectly rolled fag.
John's eyes went wide as he exclaimed, "Of course I bloody well mind, it's
against the rules!" He stormed over to the window and made a weak attempt to
snatch it away.
"Why do you think I opened the window?" Holmes mumbled, the cigarette already
between his lips. He turned his back to Watson and struck a match, took a slow
drag, and blew a delicate stream of smoke out into the open air.
"You are not to smoke in here," John said through clenched teeth. "You can do
whatever you wish outside this house, but in here you obey my rules."
Holmes took another drag and blew the smoke straight at him. "If you don't want
me to smoke in your study, perhaps we should move our arrangement elsewhere. Of
course, that would give away the fact that you're undermining Hollister's
request so you can go and play football, but—"
"All right, you've made your point. But I won't sit back and let you idly break
school rules."
Holmes smiled, but it never reached his eyes. "Then by all means, report me.
Perhaps Hollister will finally see fit to expel me from this place and everyone
will live happily ever after."
John thought himself a reasonable person, capable of handling stress in a
patient and civilised manner. He'd never struck another man in his life, but he
suddenly wanted nothing more than to slam his fist straight into Holmes' chin.
It was a vaguely terrifying sensation, but he couldn't help it; every inch of
Holmes' stance, from the cock of his hips to the elegant, practiced way he held
his cigarette, seemed to be issuing a challenge to John, as if he were daring
John to stop him.
"No, I won't report you," John replied in a low voice, unbuttoning his collar
with sharp, angry motions. He felt almost claustrophobic as he pulled off his
tie and threw it across the room before shrugging out of his blazer. His cuffs
soon followed. "But I'm not going to let you get your way on this, no matter
how clever you think you are." John rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, very
conscious of the fact that he was undressing in front of Holmes. But it was his
study, he'd damn well do as he pleased. And right now, his uniform was stifling
him.
Holmes merely looked on with bored contempt. He took one last drag, then
flicked the remains of the fag out the window. "Do you believe it's true?"
"Do I believe what is true?" John asked in exasperation.
"That I'm not only capable of arson, but manslaughter as well."
Only then did it dawn on him that Holmes had yet deny the rumours John had put
before him. He threw himself back into his chair, scrubbing both hands through
his hair with a sigh. "I have no idea what you're capable of, Holmes," he
replied honestly. He closed his eyes, feeling a sudden onslaught of exhaustion
that was becoming rather common this term.
Holmes didn't answer, and John didn't bother to open his eyes. After several
minutes, Holmes eventually said, "Excellent answer," in a voice much quieter
than John expected.
A minute later, he heard the shuffling of books being stacked and then the door
to the study softly opened and shut. When John finally opened his eyes, Holmes
was gone.
 
                                       ~
 
Things went exactly according to plan for one entire week. John barely saw
Holmes during that time, but he knew from the faint hint of tobacco in the air
in his study that Holmes had kept his part of the bargain.
It was a fairly ingenious arrangement, all things considered. John didn't have
to worry about arguing with Holmes until his head hurt, they could both go
about their business, and in the end he'd receive copious praise from the
headmaster for being such an upstanding prefect and mentor.
Then came his match against Hatley, a rival school who liked to play rough and
dirty, and John made the unfortunate mistake of attempting to tackle a winger
more than twice his size. The boy came down hard, and right onto John's left
leg.
He felt a sudden, searing pain right below his knee, and his first thought was,
Oh god, it's broken. He tried to push himself to his feet, but his leg would
not hold him, and John collapsed back onto the pitch with tears of pain and
frustration threatening to spill down his cheeks. It wasn't fair, this was his
last year to play for Leighton's first team, he couldn't be injured.
John was immediately rushed to hospital, where the doctor informed him the leg
was fractured.
"So I'll be able to play again?" John asked hoarsely, but he already knew the
answer.
The doctor sighed. "I'm afraid not, my boy. It's still quite serious, and you
mustn't aggravate a fractured bone before it's fully healed. No more games for
you this year."
John laid in the hospital bed and stared up at the ceiling, willing himself not
to cry.
His teammates visited him that evening, giving him pitying looks and wishing
him a speedy recovery. But John knew what they were all thinking—God, I'm glad
it wasn't me.
When he was released it was with his leg splinted and a set of crutches in his
hands. He'd been given a mild dose of morphine for the pain, but John didn't
care about the throbbing in his leg. The humiliation of limping across campus
to his first lesson with his books held awkwardly under one arm was far more
painful. He didn't want sympathetic glances or polite smiles; he wanted to play
football again.
What's more, there was now no reason for him to not be in his study in the
evenings, which meant having to deal with Holmes and his disdain for John's
presence face to face.
John wished he'd had the foresight to nick his father's bottle of whiskey
before he'd left home. Rules or not, he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink
right about now.
 
                                       ~
Holmes didn't learn of Watson's accident until after it happened, and even then
he wasn't told. He spotted Watson outside the refectory, propped against the
brick wall and looking as though he'd been through a battle. Holmes noticed the
dark circles under his eyes, his too-pale skin, before laying eyes on the
crutches and the splint wrapped around his leg.
For a long moment, Holmes simply watched as two other sixth formers patted
Watson's shoulder, a comforting gesture. He smiled, but it wasn't genuine,
although a forced smile from Watson was hardly disingenuous. Holmes was
learning that it was hard for Watson to be anything other than polite. Still,
it was obvious he was uncomfortable with the sympathy, and he stood awkwardly
on the crutches, wincing slightly when he put too much weight on his wounded
leg.
It wasn't difficult for Holmes to conclude that Watson had been injured during
a match. As much as he avoided all school sports, Holmes was aware of the
Hatley game and knew without a doubt that Watson had played.
It was a hazard of the sport, which was why there was no reason to show Watson
pity. All sportsmen knew the risks of their chosen game, in Holmes' opinion,
and they lived with the consequences.
But Holmes still found himself asking a boy in his history lesson later that
day, "Is it true John Watson broke his leg in the Hatley match?" He took pains
to keep his tone vaguely bored, as if he had nothing better to talk about.
Ferguson laughed and replied, "Holmes, you must have been the only one not
there! Of course it's true, he's out of commission for the rest of the season.
Quite tragic, really, the poor chap."
Holmes looked back down at his history book, but he didn't read a word of it.
He couldn't seem to get Watson's tense smile out of his head, or stop
envisioning the look on his face the moment he was told he wouldn't be playing
for the first team any longer. Watson's entire identity was wrapped up in his
ability to play a sport and play it well; without it, Holmes could imagine
Watson feeling adrift.
But Holmes didn't pity him. Not at all. Watson didn't need pity, especially
from him.
 
                                       ~
 
The following night was a Tuesday, and Holmes felt a strange anxiety at the
thought of actually having to share the study with Watson. There was no longer
any reason for Watson to not be present, but Holmes had almost grown accustomed
to sitting alone in Watson's study for an hour, smoking and reading whatever
had taken his fancy, since he'd usually finished his nightly prep long before
he came to Haverford House. He would never admit it to Watson, but Holmes found
his study much more peaceful than his own dormitory. The other members of the
lower sixth who shared his room didn't appreciate the fact that Holmes really
should be in he fifth form, and they had taken to stealing his key and locking
him out in the evenings. Holmes ignored them and did his prep elsewhere,
usually in a secluded corner of the sitting room where no one noticed him.
But Watson's study was different. It had a window seat and a soft, comfortable
settee, not to mention Watson's collection of medical journals that Holmes
found quite fascinating, although he made sure to replace them in their exact
location so as not to give Watson the impression that he'd actually read them.
Holmes enjoyed Watson's study quite a bit...as long as Watson wasn't in it.
He sighed heavily as he made his way through the Haverford sitting room,
keeping his eyes straight ahead. Holmes refused to acknowledge the inevitable
catcalls, mostly from the upper sixth barbarians who had attacked him the first
week of school.
"Oy, Holmes! I think I smell smoke, is there a fire somewhere?" He recognized
Cavanaugh's voice, the way he laughed hysterically at his own joke. Holmes took
a deep breath and told himself it wasn't worth another several hours of
"mentoring" just to be able to slam his fist into the brute's chin. He kept
moving, even when another voice called out, "Maybe he'll murder you in your
sleep and then get sent to Oxford, bloody genius that he is!"
"Fuck the lot of you," Holmes mumbled under his breath, his cheeks far too hot.
He shoved his key into the lock of the study and all but kicked the door in,
promptly dumping his books on the floor. The room was almost completely dark,
the light of dusk quickly fading. Holmes went to light the candles, growling
under his breath, "If my brain could set fire to you, I wouldn't even be at
this school, you filthy bastard."
"'scuse me?"
Holmes jumped, nearly dropping the still-burning match between his fingers. He
squinted at the settee and saw a body stretched out upon it. A second later the
body turned over, and a pair of sleepy blue eyes blinked slowly up at Holmes.
"I...I didn't think you were here yet," Holmes said in strangely breathless
voice. Watson had apparently been napping on the settee, curled on his side
with his bad leg folded awkwardly against his body. His cheek was flushed pink
from being pressed into the cushion, a faint crease running along the skin of
his jaw, and his hair was a mess.
"You're late," Watson replied, but he didn't sound angry. His voice was sleep-
rough and warm, deeper than normal. He rubbed the back of his hand over his
eyes like a small child as he yawned and stretched, wincing when his bad leg
shifted. Holmes, for some inexplicable reason, could not look away.
"I'm not, really. It's barely half past seven."
"You were supposed to be here at seven." Watson yawned again and pushed himself
up into a sitting position. He scrubbed a hair through his hair and looked up
at Holmes, his eyes still fogged with sleep. "And I'm allowed to nap in my own
study."
Holmes didn't like the unfamiliar swooping sensation in his stomach, like he
was suddenly frightened and eager for something all at once. He really wished
Watson would stop looking at him through his ridiculously long eyelashes.
Holmes hissed when the match finally burned down to his fingertips. He cleared
his throat, blew out the flame, and replied blithely, "Yes, well, I've grown
used to this room being single occupancy lately."
"Things have changed, in case you weren't aware." Watson waved his hand at the
splint.
Holmes couldn't formulate a respond to that, so he ignored Watson's injured leg
and said, arms crossed, "Don't think for a moment that you're actually going to
'tutor' me. If anything, I should be the one tutoring you."
Watson rolled his eyes. "Hardly. I have some of the highest marks at Leighton."
"Yes, but I'm the one who was moved ahead a form." He didn't know why he was
suddenly so defensive, or why he felt the need to convince Watson of his
intelligence.
"So I keep hearing," Watson said, and his tone implied that he knew about the
jeers and catcalls of his peers. Holmes' face flushed again, much to his
chagrin.
"They're jealous. Maybe you are too," he sniffed.
Watson groaned as he cupped his face in his hands. "Holmes, can we please not
bite at one another like this for an hour? I merely ask that you arrive on
time, that's all. Then you're free to do whatever you wish, so long as it's
quiet and does not involve me whatsoever."
Holmes resented Watson's condescending tone, but he flopped into the nearest
chair and glared at the floor. "I really wasn't late," he muttered.
"Holmes."
"I wasn't. I simply have my own schedule, and it's not as if you particularly
cared when I came and went, so long as I was here for an entire hour."
Watson shook his head. "Seven o'clock, Holmes. And that's final." He settled
back down on the settee and he reached for a textbook on the floor beside him.
"Please lose yourself in your brilliance for the next fifty minutes and give me
some peace."
Holmes huffed loudly, then smirked as he dug out his cigarette case from his
blazer pocket. He swiped one of the medical journals from the shelf on his way
to the window and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Watson watching him with a
raised eyebrow.
"Those are my books," Watson said.
Holmes lit his cigarette and all but sneered at Watson, "Perhaps it will lull
me to sleep. I won't be able to annoy you so much if I'm unconscious."
Watson snorted but didn't reply, and they were silent for the entire hour.
When the clock finally chimed eight-thirty, Watson said quietly, "Time's up.
You may go."
Holmes took his unread books and left without another word. He figured slamming
the study door was enough of a parting shot.
 
                                       ~
 
He went straight to the music rooms after leaving Watson's study. Holmes picked
the lock easily, like always, slipped inside, and moved quietly through the
dark until he found the room at the end of the long hallway with a wooden
cabinet tucked away in the corner. Inside was a violin case.
Without lighting a single candle, Holmes curled up against the wall and played
whatever bits and pieces of music came to mind. It was a scattered collection
of notes that sometimes coalesced into something coherent, sometimes not. He
didn't care; it was the feel of music beneath his hands that mattered, the
slide of his bow over the strings. Nothing else existed in his mind.
Holmes played for over an hour, and when he was finished he sat in silence for
another, his head tipped back to watch the patterns of moonlight drifting along
the ceiling, fingertips tracing idly over the fresh scar at his lower lip,
finally free of its stitches.
 
                                       ~
John's injury had somehow slowed down time: steps took longer, buildings were
further away, and the dull ache in his leg seemed to throb in tandem with the
passing minutes. Everything hurt in some form or another, and at the end of
each day John felt utterly exhausted and wrung out. He could barely finish his
evening prefect rounds without wanting to collapse face-first into bed.
Needless to say, when it came time to spend an hour alone with Holmes, John's
exhaustion nearly tripled.
He tried valiantly to keep his eyes open during their sessions together, but
the silence did nothing to help John stay awake. He was almost tempted to ask
Holmes to talk about his intellect so he wouldn't be caught asleep again. John
also had prep that he needed to finish and wasting an hour on sleep wasn't
going to do him any good.
After a week or so of constant silence from Holmes, John waited until Holmes
had settled into his usual spot in the window seat with a freshly lit cigarette
and asked, "What are you reading?" John twisted around and folded his arms over
the back of the settee, facing the window, awaiting Holmes' response.
Holmes gave him a wary look, then shrugged. "Nothing that would interest you,"
he murmured, running his finger absently down the spine of the book in his lap.
"I'm asking, so obviously I'm interested." Even the simplest conversation
between them seemed to border on argumentative, John thought with a sigh.
"It's not related to my prep, if that's what you're wondering."
"Holmes, just answer my question."
He took a long drag before replying in a petulant tone, "If you must know, it's
a volume on forensic science." Holmes kept his eyes downcast as he flicked ash
out the window, and for a moment John would almost swear Holmes looked...shy.
It wasn't quite the answer John was expecting. "Why on earth would you be
reading about such things? Are you planning on solving gruesome murders in the
near future?"
"Unlike most of the students at this fine institution, I prefer to read about
things that will benefit me in the real world," Holmes replied arrogantly, any
trace of shyness gone. "No, I don't plan on solving a murder anytime soon, but
what if the occasion arose? I hardly think I could solve anything by reciting
Wordsworth, or knowing the sun is a stationary object."
John gaped at him. "Perhaps those things wouldn't help solve a murder, but it's
certainly not a waste to be versed in poetry or general astronomy." He couldn't
imagine ignoring all his subjects—for John, literature and science and
philosophy were all part of what helped make a person whole. One couldn't
simply pick and choose.
Holmes rolled his eyes. "You've been led to believe that. Trust me, Watson,
there is nothing this school can teach you that you cannot learn yourself."
"You're not serious."
"Quite, actually. I have a brother who recently took up digs in London, and as
soon as I can manage it, I'm going to move there as well and rent from him."
"But...but you have at least another year of school—"
"I don't need another year. I don't need this year. Haven't you been listening
to me?"
John shook his head. It was as if Holmes were speaking in a foreign language.
"Holmes, you have to finish your schooling. No one in polite society simply
leaves school because they find it pointless."
Holmes brought what was left of his cigarette to his lips. "What makes you
think I want to be a part of polite society?" There was something about the way
Holmes smoked that always drew John's attention to his hands or, more
accurately, to his fingers. They curled around the fag with a careful,
practiced grace John usually observed in men twice Holmes' age. He tended to
hold the cigarette between his thumb and middle finger whilst his index finger
stood poised in an elegant arc, and yet the ink stains on his nails served as a
reminder that he was still a young man, still at school.
"I assume everyone wants to be," John finally replied, feeling his cheeks heat
when he had to tear his gaze away from Holmes' hands. "Your father wants you to
be, doesn't he? Isn't that why he sent you here?"
Holmes' smirk grew sharper. "You mean, isn't that why he's bribing Hollister?"
John's blush spread down his neck. "No, I—that's not what I meant. He wants you
to be a gentleman."
"My father wants me to not be an embarrassment. There's quite a bit of
difference." Holmes suddenly winced, as if he realised he'd disclosed too much
to John. He ducked his head, scrubbed a hand through his hair, then added
quickly, his voice strangely upbeat, "Well, anyway, Watson, now you have your
answer."
John watched as Holmes promptly threw the spent cigarette out the window and
tucked his legs to his chest, spreading his book out on the cushion before him.
He hooked his chin over his knees, and John saw the moment everything else in
the room ceased to exist for Holmes; his expression was one of intense
concentration, his dark brown eyes serious and focused, the corner of his
bottom lip caught between his teeth. John could not remember the last time he
saw someone read with such focus.
Holmes seemed oblivious to John's gaze, and he did not look up again to
acknowledge him for the rest of the hour.
Regardless of the silence, John felt wide awake.
 
                                       ~
 
And so it went for the next several weeks. John grew used to the hour of
silence even though it felt like something was sitting in waiting between them,
just out of reach. He found himself noticing when Holmes brought a different
book with him, but John never mentioned it. And Holmes, though he would give
John a long, considering look when he entered the study, still seemed reluctant
to discuss his reading habits.
When Hollister asked John how Holmes' was progressing, he replied in complete
honesty, "He's given me no trouble, sir. He mostly keeps to himself."
Hollister smiled and nodded. "Good, good. I knew he would follow your example."
John folded his hands in his lap and didn't reply; instead, he had Holmes'
voice whispering there is nothing this school can teach you that you cannot
learn yourself in his head.
 
                                       ~
 
It was a cold, rainy autumn afternoon when the school doctor finally told John
he no longer required crutches.
"The splint can come off?" John asked hopefully. He had already begun to
imagine himself on the football pitch once again.
The doctor shook his head, however, and gave John the sympathetic pat on the
shoulder that John utterly despised. "I'm afraid not, my boy. But you should be
able to walk on your foot more, with the help of this." He handed John what
appeared to be an old man's walking stick.
John stared at the thing in utter dismay. "I...how long am I to use that?"
"At least until after the holidays, if not longer."
He had not planned on using a walking stick until he was old and gray. It was
almost as humiliating as the crutches.
With a heavy heart, John hobbled out of the san into the rain, his balance off
as he shifted his weight onto the cane. Granted, it was less cumbersome to walk
with, but John still felt terribly self-conscious and conspicuous. He barely
noticed the rain beating against him, soaking his blazer and trousers on his
way back to Haverford House; with every click of the walking stick against the
cobblestones, John was reminded of how far he had to go before he was fully
recovered.
His bout of self-pity did not keep him from hearing what sounded very much like
Holmes' voice calling out from across the quad. John paused and wiped the rain
off his cheeks, his heart stuttering strangely. Holmes had never stopped John
before, never gone out of his way to speak to him outside of their study hour,
and yet John was quite certain it was Holmes who—
And then he rounded the corner and saw the familiar sight of Holmes flat on his
back and throwing punches, only this time he was fighting two other boys who
were much closer in size. John recognized them as fifth formers, and they both
appeared to be quite entertained with their wrestling match.
Holmes, however, had a bloody nose, and the cockiness John remembered from the
previous fight was nowhere to be found. He looked angry, and perhaps a little
desperate, his eyes wild and his hair wet and tangled across his forehead.
"Is this how you like it, on your knees? I know about boys like you," one of
the boys taunted, holding him against the muddy ground while the other blocked
Holmes' fists.
"Fuck you!" Holmes cried, and his punch finally found its mark, slamming
straight into the taller boy's nose. He stumbled back, growling in pain, and
John had had enough.
"Get off of him immediately!" he yelled. All three boys froze, but it was
Holmes who stared up at John with something very close to panic.
"Sorry," the smaller boy—John was fairly certain his name was Bradford—said
contritely. He and his companion scrambled to their feet, keeping their heads
bowed. Holmes had yet to move.
"Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?" John didn't mean to
swear in front of them—he was after all a prefect and a sixth former—but he
couldn't help his fierce surge of anger at the sight of blood coursing down
Holmes' chin.
Bradford shrugged. "Nothing," he mumbled. He nudged his friend, who nodded
quickly.
John's heart was beating too fast, and he had an almost overpowering urge to
punch Bradford himself. He swallowed tightly and replied in a dark voice, "Then
I suggest you both go back to your houses this instant." He straightened to his
full height and, regardless of the blasted cane, made himself quite imposing.
It did the trick. Both boys mumbled their gratitude as they stumbled over one
another to get as far away from John as possible.
The sky chose that moment to release a deluge upon them. Holmes was still
seated on the ground, his expression shell-shocked. There was a tear in the
sleeve of his blazer, and blood was dripping onto his collar.
John held his hand out. "Are you going to sit out in the rain all night?" he
asked over the roar of the elements.
Holmes hesitated a moment, his eyes impossibly wide and oddly frightened.
Finally, he slipped his wet hand into John's and let himself be pulled to his
feet. Their fingers tangled together for a split second before Holmes let go.
"Come on, we're closer to Haverford," John said. He could barely see the
buildings through the downpour, but he knew his way well enough.
Holmes didn't answer, but he followed John, holding his arm against his
bleeding nose. Even with the cane John couldn't move quickly, and he half
expected Holmes to race ahead. But Holmes stayed just behind him, their feet
splashing through puddles and mud as thunder echoed distantly.
They were soaked to the skin when they arrived at Haverford House, and John's
leg was throbbing. He gasped for breath in the foyer, dripping water all over
the rug. Holmes was no better off, drenched and bleeding into the wool of his
blazer sleeve.
Fortunately, the sitting room was practically empty. John breathed a sigh of
relief before glancing over his shoulder at Holmes.
"I'll get a fire going and maybe we can stop you from hemorrhaging everywhere,"
he said with a small smile.
Again, Holmes hesitated.
John turned to him, eyes narrowed. "What is it? You're suddenly reluctant to
take every advantage of my study?"
He lowered his arm, but he didn't meet John's eyes. "No, I—" Then Holmes
sniffed and schooled his face into a familiar look of indifference. "I would
simply rather not be here when it's not required," he replied coolly.
"I rescue you from yet another fight and this is the gratitude I get," John
said, limping down the hallway and unlocking the study door. He wasn't wounded
by Holmes' comment, that would be absurd. He was exasperated.
"I didn't ask to be rescued," Holmes mumbled, ducking inside. He stood in the
centre of the room, arms hugged to his chest. Tiny rivulets of water ran down
his cheeks from the tips of his wet hair and he had blood smeared across his
upper lip.
John rolled his eyes. "Yet I always seem to arrive just in time, do I not? Your
bloody knight in shining armor."
It must have been his exhaustion and pain causing him to imagine things,
because John could have sworn Holmes blushed. "Yes, your timing is impeccable,"
he mumbled tersely.
They couldn't stand around in wet clothes all night, so John lit a fire in the
small fireplace, sighing contentedly as the heat immediately warmed his damp
skin. He shrugged out of his water-logged blazer and said, with his back still
to Holmes, "You'll catch cold if you keep wearing your wet clothes."
"I'm not staying."
John glanced over to find Holmes pacing in front of the settee, arms still
folded around himself. He was shivering.
"For God's sake, Holmes, it's like a monsoon out there. You can wait it out
here, there's no reason to risk drowning." John wished it didn't irritate him
so, to know Holmes despised his company enough to run out into a thunderstorm.
Holmes wiped at his bloody nose again. "I...don't have a spare shirt here."
"You can borrow one of mine," John huffed, hanging his blazer by the fire to
dry. "Otherwise, you'll contract a vicious case of pneumonia and die, which
you'll no doubt blame on me." He glared at Holmes, who was leaving a wet trail
on the floorboards as he stalked back and forth.
"I'm h-hardly at risk of dying," Holmes replied, his breath stuttering slightly
from the shivers. He really was quite insufferable.
John yanked his soaked tie off, along with his braces, then pulled his
shirttails out of his trousers. He felt uncomfortable and disgusting, and his
clothes weren't nearly as mud-caked his Holmes'. "I'm going to fetch dry
clothes from my room," he said sharply. "You can stay here or go back into the
elements, I don't care."
Holmes paused in his pacing and met John's eyes. He seemed genuinely conflicted
for a moment before he looked away.
John swallowed his groan of frustration and slammed the door behind him.
 
                                       ~
 
Were it not for the lightning that had suddenly begun to streak the sky, Holmes
assured himself that he would not be standing in the middle of Watson's study
looking like a drowned rat. Daylight had all but disappeared, and logically
Holmes knew that finding his way back to his own house in a deluge was foolish
when he could be warm and dry at Haverford.
He only wished he were here under different circumstances. Being "rescued" by
Watson once was humiliating enough, but twice? Holmes could only imagine the
comments Watson would be making to Hollister in the morning. His stomach went
cold and Holmes reminded himself once more that Watson was not his friend—he
was bound to Holmes out of requirement and duty, nothing more.
Unfortunately, this didn't change the fact that every inch of Holmes was soaked
through and he could not seem to stop shivering. But Holmes didn't want to face
Watson's inevitable interrogation about the fight with Bradford and Collins. He
wasn't about to admit that his own classmates attacked him because of a picture
they'd found hidden under his mattress. Nor was he going to discuss the
subsequent jeers that followed in regard to the amount of time Holmes spent
with Watson. The previous fight with Cavanaugh and the others had been a lark,
just bullies attempting to assert themselves over someone smaller and smarter,
but this fight had had teeth, and sharp ones at that.
The mere memory of their taunts made Holmes flush with shame. Watson claimed
he'd saved Holmes, but in reality Holmes would've given anything to have had
Watson simply walk away. A bloodied nose would heal easily; Holmes' pride was
another thing entirely.
Not that it mattered, really. It wasn't as if Watson respected him, so what was
one more humiliation? He sighed heavily and began to shed his wet clothes,
wincing as he replayed the way Watson had growled at Bradford and Collins, as
if he had to protect Holmes. He was sure he'd never hear the end of it; he
could still hear Bradford asking Holmes how he liked getting on his knees for
Watson, and Holmes hoped against hope that Watson had arrived too late to hear
that part. He wanted to either punch someone or find his violin and play until
he forgot his misery.
It certainly didn't make him want to be in Watson's close, personal space.
Holmes was unbuttoning his soggy shirt when Watson came back to the study
dressed in dry clothes, a set of trousers and a clean shirt in his arms. He
also had a cloth and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand. John
Watson, the future doctor, Holmes thought with a rueful smirk as Watson dumped
the clothes on the settee.
"I'd wager my trousers will be too long for you, but we are sadly lacking a
tailor," Watson said defensively, as if he was expecting Holmes to argue. "And
I don't really trust you with my good shirts, so you're getting one of my old
ones. There's a hole in the sleeve, but at least it's dry."
"You own shirts with holes?" Holmes asked before he thought better of it. He
immediately bit his lip but, to his surprise, Watson actually gave him a
tentative smile.
"Much to my mother's dismay, yes. Doesn't everyone?" He held up the bottle of
rubbing alcohol. "But I don't want you bleeding all over my clothes, so let's
clean you up."
Holmes took a deep breath as he slowly peeled off his shirt, letting it fall
along with his blazer into a wet, muddy heap on the floor. His undershirt
followed suit and, even though the room was warming quickly from the fire, his
shivers grew stronger when the air hit his bare skin. Holmes clenched his jaw
to keep his teeth from chattering, clenched his fists at his sides, and toed
off his shoes and socks so he was standing before Watson in nothing but his
soaked trousers.
"So, get on with it," Holmes mumbled, keeping his eyes trained just over
Watson's shoulder. He refused to acknowledge the heat blooming in his cheeks
and starting to creep down his neck. Watson probably stripped down in front of
his teammates on a regular basis, but Holmes always chose the corner furthest
from the other boys when he had to change for games lessons. He'd had a growth
spurt over the summer, but he hardly possessed Watson's breadth of shoulders,
nor did he have his classically handsome features. Holmes had not given much
thought to these things, of course—they were merely facts.
He waited for Watson to begin wiping the blood away, but Watson just stood
there, unmoving, for a long moment. Holmes' heart started to beat a little
faster and, when he finally raised his gaze, he found Watson looking at him him
oddly, his ridiculously blue eyes narrowed as if he was searching Holmes' body
for an answer to a mysterious question.
Holmes swallowed tightly and said in the most bored, impatient tone he could
manage, "I realise I'm not the most striking specimen you've ever laid eyes on,
but I'd rather not be stared at like an insect." His voice only wavered
slightly as he tipped his chin up, setting his mouth in a firm line. Holmes
would be damned if he'd let Watson mock him.
Watson cleared his throat and looked away, fidgeting with the cloth and bottle
in his hand. "I see you've been in more scuffles than the two I've witnessed,"
he replied quietly, which only served to make Holmes blush more furiously.
Obviously Watson could see the bruises lining his rib cage, the scars covering
his skin just above his navel, but it was none of Watson's business. Some of
them were badges of honour, others were not, but Holmes wasn't going to explain
them, not here. And certainly not to Watson.
"Your concern is my nose, nothing more," Holmes said, a bit too softly for his
liking. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, hunched his shoulders
defensively. Watson was tracking his movements again, and Holmes made the
unfortunate mistake of allowing his gaze to land on Watson's mouth just as
Watson swiped his tongue over his lower lip, leaving it slick and shiny in the
firelight.
For a brief, vaguely terrifying second, Holmes could not breathe.
"Quite right." Watson blinked a few times and scrubbed a hand through his hair;
it was drying at odd angles, curling slightly at his neck. Then he unscrewed
the cap on the bottle and said, "Hold still," as he poured alcohol onto the
cloth.
Holmes closed his eyes as Watson came closer and cupped Holmes' chin to keep
him steady. His touch was gentle, the fingertips pressed along Holmes' jaw cold
but soft. Watson wiped carefully at the blood coating Holmes' upper lip, and
when his knuckles bumped against Holmes' nose, causing Holmes to hiss sharply,
he whispered quickly, "Sorry, sorry. Does it hurt?"
"A little," Holmes admitted, ignoring the erratic pounding in his chest. He had
yet to open his eyes, but he could feel Watson's breath against his cheek, knew
instinctively that they were nearly nose to nose. He was startled by the touch
of Watson's finger trailing down the bridge of his nose, causing his eyes to
fly open.
"It doesn't feel broken," Watson replied softly as he continued to dab at
Holmes' skin with the cloth. This close, the height difference between them
seemed more obvious. Holmes tilted his head up, squaring his shoulders and
wishing those infuriating few inches would disappear so that Watson didn't loom
over him in such a disconcerting way.
He has freckles, Holmes thought, then winced. Why on earth would he notice such
things at a time like this?
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep hurting you," Watson said, misinterpreting
Holmes' twitches as pain. His eyes were wide and focused and he sounded
genuinely contrite. It made Holmes' chest clench.
"You're not hurting me," he replied sullenly, hugging his arms tighter to his
body. "Are you nearly finished?"
Watson gave one last swipe of the cloth before nodding. But instead of dropping
his hands and stepping away, he rubbed his thumb over Holmes' lip, just beneath
his nose. "Yes, I think that should do it," Watson said in a strange, rough
voice Holmes did not recognize.
"Good." Watson finally stepped away, and Holmes could breathe again. "May I
dress now, or am I still unfit to wear your clothing?"
Watson rolled his eyes. "You're fine. For god's sake, please put a shirt on."
Heat flooded Holmes' face, and he glared at Watson. "You're the one who
insisted rather vehemently that I remove my clothes." He absolutely hated how
tight his throat suddenly felt.
"For your health, yes, but that doesn't mean I'm thrilled to have you half-
naked in my study."
"If it were up to me, I wouldn't even be here to offend your delicate
sensibilities."
"You don't appear to be shackled and chained against your will."
"You asked me to stay!"
"I told you not to be an idiot."
"You offered me your clothes." Holmes forgot his state of undress for the
moment and stormed over to where Watson stood in front of the fire, his hands
shaking with anger, the flush in his cheeks deepening. "You brought me back
here and insisted on tending my wounds! And let's not forget that this all
transpired after you 'rescued' me, as you so immodestly described it. So do not
for a second pretend my 'practically naked' presence in your study is in any
way my fault, because that, John Watson, would be a bald-faced lie."
Watson stared down at him, eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw ticking
sporadically. "Let's not forget, Sherlock, that your insistence on getting into
fights is what landed you to be here in the first place."
Several responses flitted through Holmes' mind—namely a succinct "fuck you" and
a punch to the jaw. But he felt too off-kilter to throw a proper punch, so he
replied through clenched teeth, "You don't understand anything, least of all
me."
Watson snorted. "You're an ungrateful brat. I understand that much."
Holmes had been called worse, much worse. There was no reason for him to feel
an embarrassing twinge of hurt. "You think you're gifted, special? You're just
a cripple. Everyone pities you," he shot back fiercely, wanting desperately to
hurt Watson in turn.
The sharp anger in Watson's eyes faded instantly. He took a step back and, as
if acknowledging Holmes' statement, his wounded leg buckled, forcing him to
shift his weight and brace himself against the mantle. His expression crumpled,
either in pain or despair; he looked quite young for a moment, young and
vulnerable and frustrated.
I'm sorry, Holmes immediately thought, but he refused to say the words aloud.
Instead, he went to the settee and began to dress silently. He was painfully
aware of Watson behind him but neither of them said a word.
When Holmes was dressed in Watson's clothes, his trousers cuffed twice over and
his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, he turned and said, "It's still raining
outside." He nodded to the window, where the rain was pelting the glass with
abandon.
Watson nodded as well. "You're staying here, then?" He wouldn't meet Holmes'
eyes.
Holmes shrugged. "I...suppose?"
"You can sleep on the settee."
"All right."
"All right. Fine." Watson sighed and wearily rubbed a hand over his face. Then
he turned and left the study without bidding Holmes good-night.
 
                                       ~
 
Sleep did not come easily for Holmes. He blamed his restlessness on the
stiffness of the settee, the lack of a blanket, and the constant angry rumbling
of thunder. After an hour or so, the fire began to burn down, but Holmes didn't
bother to stoke it. Instead, he stared into the dimming light, replaying over
and over in his mind the words he'd exchanged with Watson. He simply could not
banish the image of Watson's wounded expression from his mind, much to his
dismay. It was ridiculous. It wasn't as if Watson had been an innocent
bystander in the argument.
"Spoiled prefect," Holmes muttered as he turned on his side to face the back of
the settee. He wasn't ashamed of his actions, not at all, and he wasn't going
to be like everyone else at Leighton who pitied Watson. And yet he still felt a
coldness in his stomach whenever he thought of Watson staggering back on to his
bad leg.
He's broken enough as it is without you reminding him, a little voice in
Holmes' head said.
"Rubbish," Holmes whispered. "He's perfectly fine."
His words were punctuated by the sound of the study door opening quietly.
Startled, Holmes rolled over and froze when he saw Watson limp into the room.
He looked bleary-eyed and sleep-rumpled, his hair messy and his cheeks slightly
pink.
"You're still awake?" Watson asked softly. He wasn't wearing a dressing
gown—rather, it looked as if he'd fallen asleep in his shirt and trousers. His
feet were bare.
Holmes nodded as Watson slowly made his way to the fire, his steps stiff and
staggered. "Why are you—?"
"My leg hates storms," Watson replied, stoking the fire until the flames were
hearty once more. He rubbed at his neck, shoulders hunched slightly.
Holmes was not one for apologies. For the most part, he considered them a waste
of time and energy. But as he watched Watson's pained, fatigued movements, he
found himself swallowing against a sudden ache.
"It's not true," Holmes blurted out.
Watson sighed. "What isn't?"
"What I said about—about people pitying you." He despised feeling awkward with
words.
"No, you were right. I see it every day."
"Yes, but...you're not a...a..."
"Cripple?" Holmes could hear the smirk in Watson's voice, and soon he came
around the back of the settee, his hand trailing along the back.
"That's not—shouldn't you have your cane?" Holmes asked before thinking better
of it.
Watson glared at him. "No, this cripple can manage without his cane, thank
you."
"For someone who wishes to be a doctor one day, you're quite cavalier about
ignoring doctor's orders."
"Says the fellow who thinks it is appropriate to do whatever he pleases."
Holmes sat up and replied hotly, "Just because I don't conform to the arbitrary
rules of this school like some people do, doesn't mean I have no regard for
rules in general."
"Only the ones that suit you."
"I'm not the one limping about without a cane."
"God, do you want me to say it, Holmes?" Watson rounded the settee and knelt
with his good knee on the cushion beside him, leaning over Holmes with a fierce
look in his eyes. "Fine! I despise that thing because it makes me feel weak and
useless and old! And I hate being reminded with every bloody step I take that
I'll never play football again. Is that what you wanted to hear?" His voice
caught on the last few words.
Holmes was speechless for a moment, staring at the angry flush colouring
Watson's shadowed cheeks and the fast, steady rise and fall of his shoulders.
He hadn't meant to anger Watson again, or to hurt him, but somehow he'd done
both in the process of trying—albeit rather clumsily—to apologise.
He bit his lip, refusing to look away from Watson's gaze. "I already knew all
that," he replied. "I didn't need you to say it out loud."
Watson's mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, and he pressed further into Holmes'
space, his knee hard against Holmes' thigh, his arm braced against the arm of
the settee over Holmes' shoulder. Holmes swallowed a gasp, his heart racing.
"You claim I know nothing about you, and yet you know everything about me?"
Watson whispered. His eyes were devastatingly blue this close up.
Holmes licked his lips and replied in a rush, "Football defines you, means
everything to you. You think of yourself as a prefect and an excellent scholar,
but what you really are is an athlete, and people idolize you for it. This was
your last year to make the most of that before you went off to London to become
a doctor, but your injury changed all that and now you're lost. And you hate
the pity that's replaced the admiration from your peers."
Watson's mouth open and closed, his eyes wide in disbelief. "I'm...I'm not
lost."
"Yes, you are. You've all but admitted it."
It was Holmes' turn to be shocked when Watson suddenly shoved at his shoulders.
"I've admitted nothing, and if I'm giving you the impression of being lost,
it's because I'm forced to spend three nights a week with someone who should be
in the sodding fifth form and thinks far too highly of himself."
The shove automatically put Holmes on alert; out of habit, every inch of his
body was instantly ready for a fight. "I'm a sixth former," he said through
clenched teeth as he pushed back, his hands flat against Watson's chest.
"You're a fifth former and everyone knows it. That's why no one wants anything
to do with you—you don't belong anywhere." Watson gave him a cruel little
smile, and something snapped inside him.
Holmes only meant to reclaim his space, but the combination of anger and
adrenaline caused him to shove Watson off the settee. Watson's eyes flared with
anger, and he launched himself at Holmes with a growl. Holmes tried to move,
but Watson's reflexes were still quicker than his, even with his injury. After
a short struggle, he slammed Holmes into the settee's arm, wrists pinned above
his head with one hand as he drew his other back into a fist.
Holmes couldn't help but laugh. "Go ahead, Watson, punch me. Not only will I
bleed all over your precious shirt, you'll have yet another excuse to rescue me
and play the hero." He smiled, nasty and vicious. Watson's thighs bracketed
Holmes' lap, and they were pressed together from hip to chest, gasping for
breath, flushed from exertion and anger, and Holmes thought, I hate you, I hate
you, I hate you...
Only Watson shifted against him slightly, lining their hips up, and Holmes lost
his breath all over again as he realised they were both unmistakably hard.
He went completely still, pulse thudding all the way down to his fingertips.
Holmes wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look away
from Watson's face. Watson slowly lowered his hand and braced it on the arm of
the settee, his wrist brushing against Holmes' temple.
Watson panted above him, lips parted, and his eyes were very dark, nearly all
pupil. He didn't appear angry anymore. He was watching Holmes with a skittish,
nervous look, like he was waiting for Holmes to insult or shove him again. He
looked almost frightened.
Holmes wasn't sure who moved first—he doubted Watson knew, either. He was aware
of the tiny, embarrassing sound that escaped his throat the moment he felt the
first hints of friction, his body jerking, overloaded with sensation. He had
never, ever experienced anything like this before, had never felt so close to
coming apart in front of someone. For Holmes, orgasms were a private matter,
quick and silent, never witnessed. But now he was shivering, all the blood in
his veins rushing southward to his prick as he thrust against the front of
Watson's trousers with too much urgency.
He flinched, wanting to hide his face in the cushion, but then he heard a sound
from Watson, rough and inelegant. Holmes pried his eyes open to see Watson
biting his lip until it was a bright, shiny red, eyes tightly closed, lashes
fanned out against his pink cheeks. His arms, still braced on either side of
Holmes' head, were vibrating, as if they were moments away from giving out all
together.
Watson looked desperate and wrecked, and Holmes thought, I did that.
Their rhythm wasn't consistent, but it didn't matter. A familiar heat was
already blooming in Holmes' stomach and spreading lower, his muscles
tightening. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold on—he wouldn't come before
Watson, he wouldn't—until Watson rolled his hips and gasped, high and
breathless, "Oh."
Holmes shut his eyes and came, whimpering as his body convulsed. A split second
later he heard Watson exhale loudly through his nose as he shuddered and
collapsed against Holmes' chest, his nose buried in Holmes' collarbone.
Once the haze of climax had cleared and he could pull air into his lungs again,
Holmes thought about pushing Watson off, but he felt so very drowsy and sated
and Watson was surprisingly warm. He could feel Watson's breath evening out
against his skin, and the hand curled into Holmes' shirt gradually went limp.
He draped his arms loosely over Watson's shoulders, since there was nowhere
else to put them, and told himself he would only sleep for a little while. It
wasn't as if he could move with Watson's weight pressing him into the settee
anyway.
He fell asleep with Watson's mouth open against his skin, thunder rumbling in
the distance.
 
                                       ~
 
John woke with a start. The room was just beginning to brighten with the first
few hints of dawn through the window, and the air was chilled. But what John
noticed most was the ache in his leg from sleeping on the settee at such an odd
angle.
Then he realised that he hadn't been asleep on the settee—he'd been asleep on a
warm body.
Sherlock Holmes' body.
John swallowed and carefully pushed himself up and to his feet, groaning softly
when his leg protested at the sudden weight. He stood over the settee for a
moment, looking down at Holmes' sleeping form still sprawled against the
cushions. His dark hair was an utter tangled mess, and his shirt—John's
shirt—wasn't buttoned correctly.
But his mouth was parted in sleep, and there was a hint of slickness just
inside his lower lip. Unbidden, memories of the previous night came rushing
back; how full Holmes' mouth had looked as he'd glared fiercely up at John, the
way his hair fell in his eyes, and the soft, broken sounds he'd made while
they'd—
"Bloody hell," John breathed, heart hammering in his chest as he glanced down
at the stiff, rather obscene mess on the front of his trousers. It hadn't been
a dream. It was, in fact, Friday morning, and he had lessons in a matter of
hours, and rounds to make, and he couldn't do any of that in soiled clothing.
He knew he should wake Holmes and send him back to his own house.
Unfortunately, waking him would only lead to talking, which might lead to more
fighting, and John could deal with neither at the moment. Holmes probably had a
logical explanation for what had transpired, but John didn't want to talk about
logic or reasoning or anything else pertaining to their—their moment. As far as
he was concerned, it never happened.
He left Holmes asleep in his study, racing as silently as possible back to his
room to rid himself of all evidence of the night before.
 
                                       ~
 
Disposing of physical evidence was one thing—the mental kind was quite another.
Every time his mind so much as wandered a little, John thought of his hands
braced against the settee cushions, Holmes' body arching underneath him, or
Holmes standing shirtless by the fire, subtle lines of muscle etched into his
pale skin, his solid yet wiry frame shivering as John had held his chin steady
to clean the blood from his nose. Holmes may not be especially tall, but he
wasn't small—he had the body of a fighter, the kind John had read about who
fought in the boxing clubs in London. He thought of the scars and bruises along
Holmes' torso and wondered if perhaps he were not so far off.
"Really, Watson, are you ill?" Pierce asked with a hint of amusement. "You look
distressed."
John blinked quickly, realising he'd been staring across the refectory table at
nothing, his lunch plate untouched. "I...no, no, I'm not. Just...had a long
evening. Didn't sleep much." He rubbed a hand over his cheek, winced at the
day-old stubble against his fingertips. He rarely, if ever, forgot to shave in
the mornings.
"I didn't think storms bothered you so."
"They don't, I was simply, um. Doing prep until late." He fidgeted with his
fork, a slow blush creeping over his neck as he remembered how dark Holmes'
eyes had looked just before—
"Well, you should be getting a bit of entertainment here to lift your spirits."
Pierce grinned and nudged him in the side as he jerked his head toward the far
end of the table.
John's heart leapt into his throat when he saw Holmes walking toward them,
oblivious to his surroundings as always, his nose buried in the little black
notebook he carried everywhere. He was no longer wearing John's clothes.
Instead, he was wearing his uniform with a complete lack of regard for its
wrinkled, filthy state from the night before. His hair was no better off,
sticking up in all directions like a crazed bird's nest.
He never went back to his house, John thought, feeling a sharp clench of guilt.
Holmes must have woken up just before classes and thrown his own clothes back
on in a rush to avoid being tardy.
"Will you look at him? You'd think he had spent the night sleeping in the
gutter," Pierce said, snorting in disgust. "He doesn't even have the decency to
keep his blazer pressed."
John bit his lip and said nothing.
"He's also missing his tie. Quite pathetic, if you ask me."
The knot of guilt twisted in John's stomach as he watched Cavanaugh get up from
the far end of the table and block Holmes' path. He said something to Holmes
that made the rest of the boys sitting behind Cavanaugh laugh and, to Watson's
surprise, Holmes didn't throw back an icy retort. Instead, his shoulders
sagged, and he kept his gaze downcast, mouth in a tight line.
"At least Cavanaugh will give him what for," Pierce said with grin.
John had every intention of looking away, ignoring the situation, but then
Holmes glanced up and met John's eyes and the air rushed from his lungs at
Holmes' exhausted, vulnerable expression. John could scarcely believe Holmes
would allow himself to appear in such a state in public, late and bedraggled or
not.
John's mouth opened and closed and heat gathered in his cheeks. He had no idea
what he was trying to say, or if Holmes even wanted an apology, but the
miserable look Holmes gave him felt like a physical blow, as if he'd thrown a
right hook at John's chin. Deep down, Watson knew he deserved it.
Cavanaugh shoved Holmes and sent him stumbling into the nearest table,
scattering his books everywhere. Watson swallowed, resisting the immediate urge
to pound Cavanaugh into the floor. He stared down at his hands fisted on either
side of his plate until the sound of the boys' raucous laughter was too much.
"Watson?" Pierce asked when John stood up abruptly. "Where are you going, we
have another fifteen minutes until—"
John shook his head, unable to think of a excuse for limping out of the dining
hall without looking back. Pierce called his name again, but John barely heard
it at all.
 
                                       ~
 
He tried to avoid the study that evening, having convinced himself there was no
need to do prep on a Friday evening. It was a lie, of course. John often spent
hours in his study at the weekend; it was the only place he could be alone.
But now the room only served to remind him of everything that had transpired in
the past twenty-four hours. John knew he'd open the door and find a pile of
crumpled clothes on the floor, that the cushions of the settee would still hold
the indentations from where Holmes slept. He didn't want to think about it,
because then he'd have to remember about the dark circles under Holmes' eyes,
the way Pierce had mocked Holmes' uniform, Cavanaugh's cruelty. John felt sick
at the thought.
You're thinking about it now, the infuriating little voice in his head reminded
him. John huffed to himself, glaring at the door to his study. He probably
looked ridiculous, pacing the length of the hallway with a scowl on his face.
"To hell with it," he muttered, unlocking the door and kicking it shut behind
him.
His shirt and trousers were thrown carelessly over the back of the settee, but
the cushions showed no sign that someone had slept there overnight. The room
smelled vaguely of soot from the fireplace, but there was no hint of tobacco.
There was, for all intents and purposes, no evidence that Holmes had ever been
there—save the plain school tie laying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The
colours were not Haverford's.
John picked up the tie carefully, the silk sliding between his fingers. He
thought of Pierce's comment about Holmes' uniform, or lack thereof, and
swallowed tightly.
He wouldn't see Holmes again until Tuesday evening. Either Holmes would go two
whole days without his tie, or he'd come to John's study to retrieve it.
Somehow, John seriously doubted that would happen. But he couldn't risk a
repeat of the incident with Cavanaugh, or any other sixth former who felt it
was his place to "educate" Holmes on proper attire. The teachers would not
stand for Holmes missing his tie for so long, either.
It was John's fault, so it was up to him to make amends.
He folded the tie neatly and slipped it into his trouser pocket, ignoring the
slight tremble in his hand.
 
                                       ~
 
Most boys spent their Friday nights in the common room but, of course, Holmes
was not a typical Leighton boy. John was met with blank stares or indifferent
shrugs when he asked after Holmes' whereabouts. He finally found the two boys
who had fought with Holmes the night before, who after much prodding
relunctantly informed John that they shared a dormitory with Holmes.
"And yet you attacked him?" John asked, refusing to acknowledge the sudden
flare of ugly heat in his chest.
The larger boy, Collins, rolled his shoulder. "He's...odd. Thinks he's better
than the rest of us."
"That's no reason to pick a fight."
"He's always asking for a fight," Collin's friend Bradford mumbled. "And he
shouldn't leave disgusting pictures laying around if he doesn't want someone
laying into him."
John's mind began to race, but he didn't ask them to elucidate further. "Do you
know where he is now?"
Bradford rolled his eyes. "We'd be the last to know. Holmes disappears for
hours every night and doesn't come back to our rooms until we're all asleep. I
think he likes it that way, and so do we."
John sighed. "And he never tells you where he goes?"
"We don't care," Collins sniffed.
"The less we see of him, the better," Bradford added.
The heat simmering just beneath John's skin made his hand twitch. "Capital," he
replied through clenched teeth. Collins had a dark bruise around his right eye,
and John felt an odd sense of pleasure knowing Holmes was responsible for it.
He left Holmes' house with his jaw clenched in frustration. Typical that he
wouldn't be able to find Holmes when he actually wanted to. John couldn't
explain it, but the realisation that he didn't know anything about how Holmes
spent his free time was irritating. He'd never really stopped to consider what
Holmes did outside their daily hour together, if he hid away somewhere, if he
had friends.
John had almost decided to give up his search when he heard the very faint
sound of a lone violin coming from music building. Students weren't permitted
to practice after dark, and there were no lights to be seen inside. John
wondered briefly if Mr. Folsom, Leighton's music master, was rehearsing late,
but that was highly unlikely. Leighton's teaching staff tended to keep to their
rooms in the evenings and at weekends, and besides, Folsom had a private
rehearsal room.
As he approached the main door, John saw that the lock had been picked—a small
metal wire still protruded from the keyhole. He wiggled the knob and the door
swung open, revealing nothing but darkness. Quiet strains of violin music
drifted through the air. John didn't know his composers well enough to
distinguish Mozart from Bach, but he knew that whoever was playing possessed
considerable talent. He followed the melancholy notes down a long corridor to
the last room on the right. The door was dusty, weathered with age, andappeared
to lead to an old storage room.
John realised with a start that his heart was pounding hard. Anyone could be
behind that door, a thief or a criminal or a crazed lunatic. The logical part
of his brain told him he should leave immediately and report the break-in.
Instead, John silently pushed the door open, holding his breath as his eyes
adjusted to the moonlight shining through the window. The room was stuffy,
lined with ancient cabinets that held long forgotten instruments, littered with
broken chairs. Dust motes and tobacco smoke filled the air. Holmes sat on the
floor beneath the window, cradling his violin like a precious artifact. He was
nearly hidden in shadows, eyes closed, head bent as if in prayer, his wild mess
of dark hair tumbled over his forehead. Holmes continued to play, oblivious to
John's presence, and John could do nothing but watch in breathless fascination.
It was effortless, the way Holmes' fingers danced over the strings, pulling
notes from thin air. He held the bow with the same practiced elegance he held
his cigarettes, like a seasoned musician performing for a full music hall
instead of a boy tucked away in the dark of a storage room playing only for
himself. John was filled with an inexplicable ache at the sight, and the lonely
music made him long for something he couldn't define.
John had yet to make a single sound, and he could have stood still in the
doorway listening to Holmes play for hours, but it was not five minutes before
Holmes stopped and lowered his bow.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said quietly without looking up at John.
"Neither are you," John replied in an equally soft voice, heart still beating
uncomfortably fast.
Holmes tipped his head back against the wall and shook the hair out of his
eyes. He pulled his knees close to his chest and draped his wrists over his
knees, letting both bow and violin dangle precariously from his hands. His
expression was as heartbreaking as it had been earlier that day in the dining
hall. "Then we'll both have to be punished," he said, his voice low and
emotionless.
John shook his head. "No, I—I was looking for you."
Even in the hazy dim light, John swore he saw a flicker of surprise in Holmes'
eyes before they narrowed into a glare. "Come to lecture me on my uniform
upkeep as well? I'm not usually so careless, but I overslept this morning."
John knew he deserved the jab. He swallowed, steeling himself and taking a step
closer. "Look, what happened was...it was disgraceful, and I...I...I'm sorry."
Holmes bit the corner of his lip, his thumb sliding over the end of his bow in
an idle caress. "Be more specific, Watson." His words were once again quiet and
free of vitriol.
John was thankful for the dark. Holmes wouldn't be able to see the bright flush
he could feel spreading over the bridge of his nose. Of course Holmes would
want him to say it out loud. He took a deep breath and rubbed a hand over the
hot skin of his neck.
"I'm referring to Cavanaugh," John replied. "There was no reason for him to—I
should've—"
"Should've what? Saved me? I think you've done enough of that, Watson. Your
chivalry is misplaced." Holmes set the violin down at his feet and crossed his
legs, fingers still playing almost obscenely over the bow. John wanted to snap
at him to stop being so bloody distracting, but that would have meant admitting
that he couldn't stop staring at Holmes' hands.
John huffed, refusing to let Holmes bait him. "He humiliated you," he
whispered. "You didn't deserve that."
Holmes laughed, but it was deadly cold. "It was no worse than waking up alone
without clean trousers."
"I'm sorry," John repeated, hanging his head.
"So you've said."
"Goddamn it, Holmes, I—" He raked both hands through his hair and finally
jerked the school tie out of his pocket and threw it at him.
After a long pause, Holmes picked the tie off the ground and held it in his
hands, frowning. "Is this why you came looking for me?"
"I tried your house, but I couldn't find you there and no one could tell me
where you might be, and I didn't know where else to look until I heard music
coming from here and, well." John flailed his hand uselessly, feeling foolish
and pathetic. This had been a mistake, Holmes didn't need John to come to his
rescue. He was angry about the night before and John was only making it worse,
he should—
"Thank you," Holmes whispered down at the tie threaded around his fingers.
John blinked rapidly. Then he licked his lips and whispered back, "You're
welcome."
Holmes took a deep breath, his shoulders expanding and contracting in slow
motion. "I...I think, for our mutual benefit, that we should come to some sort
agreement for the remainder of the year." His words lacked their customary
bite.
"An agreement?"
Holmes nodded. "A truce, if you will."
John's leg began to ache from standing in one place for too long. He
transferred his cane to the opposite hand, shifting his weight as much as he
could. He hated the way Holmes intently watched his movements. "Go on."
"As long as we have to continue our sessions, we will endeavor to be civil. We
don't have to be friends, only...polite acquaintances."
John thought of Holmes beneath him on the settee, his dark eyes at half-mast.
He did not think of Holmes as an acquaintance—that much he could admit to
himself. "That seems fair," he replied quietly.
"No more fights."
"Agreed."
"And—and anything that occurred prior to our set truce is forgotten." Holmes'
voice faltered, and he had yet to glance up from his hands.
John let out a slow breath through his nose. "All right."
Holmes pressed his lips together, then bobbed his head in another curt nod.
"Very well." He held his hand out, finally meeting John's gaze. Even in the
shadows, his eyes, framed by a delicate fringe of lashes, were huge and bright
and large and so tentative, John could scarcely believe it. He wasn't used to
seeing Holmes unsure of himself.
His stomach swooped, like a wave rushing into shore, stealing his breath. John
didn't fully understand what it was they were agreeing to, but he would shake
Holmes' hand. In that moment, he realised, he would do whatever Holmes asked.
"Truce," John breathed, closing his hand around Holmes'. His palm was warm and
smooth against John's, his fingers cold, calluses rough against John's skin.
Holmes repeated, "Truce," and a ghost of a smile flitted across his face.
 
                                       ~
He didn't expect things to change with a simple handshake—Holmes was not that
naïve. If anything, Holmes thought their truce would minimize the tension and
let them return to their earlier mutual indifference.
But when he was alone with his violin, playing snatches of Bach and trying
desperately not to think about the sounds Watson had made that night in the
study, he could admit that there had never been a time when he was truly
indifferent to John Watson.
That, it seemed, was the problem. Holmes found himself seeking out Watson
during the day without even realising, blushing furiously whenever their gazes
connected across the quad and Watson gave him a confused frown. Holmes would
roll his eyes and duck into the nearest classroom to try to calm the frantic
pounding of his heart.
Holmes wished he knew why his mind and body had suddenly decided that one
unfortunate evening was enough to fill his thoughts with nothing but Watson.
The worst part was that Watson had started to act...carefully around Holmes,
almost tentatively. If Holmes arrived a few minutes late for their session, he
didn't lecture Holmes on the importance of punctuality. Instead, he glanced up
from his book and said, "Good evening, Holmes," and went back to his prep work
without another word. If Holmes refused to open the window because of the
frigid winter air, Watson merely shrugged and said, "Just don't smoke more than
one."
The strange tension between them hadn't disappeared, but it had been replaced
by something more complicated, something Holmes could not begin to understand.
They were careful not to touch one another, but he still caught Watson watching
him when he thought Holmes wasn't looking. He pretended not to notice.
The tenuous politeness between them lasted a week, and then Watson had a bad
day.
Holmes arrived first that night. He kicked off his shoes as he usually did and
went about lighting the candles and starting a fire, feeling daring enough to
smoke a cigarette whilst he did. He was humming a Mozart sonata and considering
the possibility of maybe, perhaps, bringing his violin to the study and playing
for Watson (yet another disturbing notion he could not seem to shake) when the
door flew open and Watson staggered in. He came to an abrupt halt in the middle
of the room, glaring at Holmes.
"I told you to open a damn window," he said in a biting tone.
Holmes blinked in surprise, then quickly flicked the cigarette into the
fireplace. "Sorry, you weren't here yet, and I thought—"
"You thought you'd break the rules. I'm shocked," Watson sneered, which was not
at all in keeping with his demeanor of the previous week. Holmes felt the
familiar prickle of defensiveness beneath his skin, the sudden urge to hurl
back any number of cutting retorts, but then he saw the painful, horrible way
Watson was limping. He was panting softly, hissing with each step, until he all
but fell onto the settee, his cane clattering to the floor at his feet.
"You always make the room smell like a bloody tavern. I should confiscate every
ounce of your tobacco and be done with it." Watson gave him the most
condescending smile Holmes had ever seen. A few weeks earlier, Holmes would
have told Watson exactly what he thought of his idle threats.
But something wasn't right. Watson tipped his head back against the settee and
shut his eyes tightly, his fist curled against his thigh. His bad leg was bent
in front of him at an odd angle, as if it hurt to straighten it out completely.
And his tie was loose and askew, like he had been tugging at it in agitation.
"Matron left early today," Holmes said softly, walking carefully towards him.
Watson snorted. "How could you possibly know that?"
"She gives you your pain medication, and it's obvious that you're sorely
lacking it at the moment."
"Shut up, Holmes, you don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."
"What happened today? Did someone kick you accidentally, or did you fall
somehow—"
"I said shut up!" Watson threw a weak punch, but Holmes easily ducked it. He
knew he should leave Watson alone with his own misery, but Holmes couldn't take
his eyes off the twist of Watson's mouth, the clench of his jaw.
He knelt in front of Watson, lower lip between his teeth. Watson had closed his
eyes again, and Holmes decided to take advantage of that. Ever so slowly, he
laid his hands on Watson's knees.
Watson's eyes flew open, and he growled, "Don't touch me," shoving at Holmes'
chest.
Holmes shook his head. "I...you need—"
"I don't need anything from you! In fact, get out. Our session is canceled."
Holmes held his breath and his heart began to race. He didn't know what he was
doing at all, but he knew he mustn't leave Watson alone. Not like this. "I'm
not leaving," he whispered.
Watson shoved him again. "I mean it, Holmes! Get out!"
"No." Then, feeling a blind terror he had never known before, he slid a shaking
hand over the front of Watson's trousers, never taking his eyes off him. He
gasped when Watson's cock twitched under his fingers.
Watson made a strangled sound in his throat and suddenly the anger drained from
his face. He looked wide-eyed and surprised, just as he had that night during
the thunderstorm.
"Don't," he whispered, but to Holmes' shock, he pushed his hips up ever so
slightly against Holmes' hand. He could feel Watson growing hard under his
palm, which fascinated Holmes. Swallowing hard, he rubbed his hand against the
wool material, fingers curling awkwardly. Watson whimpered as he shifted
against the cushions.
"Tell me if this hurts." Holmes' voice sounded strange to his own ears, too
deep and too raw.
Watson winced, a pink flush spreading slowly across his cheeks. "Y-you're not
hurting me," he gasped, and the groan he bit back made Holmes press closer,
until he kneeling between Watson's thighs, hips flat against the settee. His
brain was a whirl of thoughts as he tried desperately to analyze every stroke
of his hand and thrust of Watson's hips. Holmes' blood rushed frantically
through his veins, and he simply could not focus on anything but the feeling
that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt half-crazed, almost drugged, as he
cupped his hand more tightly over Watson's erection and let him grind into the
heel of his palm.
"God, I—Holmes—" And the way Watson moaned his name before he keened softly was
something Holmes had never heard before. Holmes felt powerful, strong, but he
had no idea as to how to handle either of those heady emotions when he was
curled over this beautiful boy who was not his friend. Watson's hips finally
jerked roughly, and Holmes felt a rush of warmth underneath his hand.
He would have pulled his hand away, but Holmes was too distracted by the heat
that surged through his belly with such force that he lost his breath. He shut
his eyes against it, pressed his hips against the settee and grit his teeth
until the overwhelming sensation passed.
He panted quietly, looking up at Watson through his lashes. Holmes didn't move
his hand, didn't move a muscle. He stared at Watson, boneless beneath him, his
slick-shiny lips parted, blond hair damp and curling along the edge of his
forehead.
When Watson finally opened his eyes, Holmes went breathless all over again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and then smiled sheepishly at Holmes with a little
quirk of his mouth.
Holmes felt as if he was falling for a moment, weightless and uncontrollable.
"I know," he whispered, not trusting his voice. He took away his hand from
Watson's damp trousers, wiped it carelessly on the rug. Fortunately, Holmes had
chosen to wear his dark grey trousers that day, and his blazer was clean and
pressed. He'd be able to make it back to his house without drawing attention to
himself.
Watson's grimace of pain was not quite as severe as it had been earlier, but he
still huffed in frustration when he tried to shift his leg into a different
position. Holmes carefully crawled up and over Watson's lap, tucking himself
against the arm of the settee beside him, knees drawn up to his chin.
"What happened?" he asked, repeating his earlier question.
Watson sighed and rubbed a hand over his cheek. "I...I thought I could handle a
small game," he replied softly, head bowed. "Pierce and the others, they were
kicking a ball around, and I haven't been in much pain lately, so—I didn't
think—" He huffed again, louder this time, his eyes suspiciously bright.
Holmes chewed the corner of his thumb and let his toes nudge up against
Watson's thigh.
"Have you ever tried smoking?" he asked.
Watson glanced over and laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "No, never.
My father would kill me."
"Your father isn't here, is he?" Holmes stood up on the cushions and leapt over
the side of the settee so as not to jostle Watson's leg. He headed straight for
the little box of tobacco he kept hidden by the window seat, relieved that he'd
thought to roll more than one the day before.
When Holmes handed a cigarette to Watson, he frowned at it. "I'm—I'm not sure
this a good idea."
Holmes rolled his eyes. "You never think anything even remotely frowned upon is
a good idea. Rules are made to be broken, Watson. It's time you learned that."
He perched himself on the arm of the settee and lit his cigarette, then leaned
over to light Watson's with the same match.
He wasn't surprised by Watson's fit of coughing the first time he tried to
inhale. Holmes was, however, impressed with his determination. Within a handful
of minutes, Watson was taking long, leisurely drags, his shoulders only shaking
intermittently with suppressed coughs.
Holmes let himself smile, a true, genuine smile. "Better?"
Watson blew out a puff of smoke and tilted his head back as he finally
stretched his leg into what appeared to be a more comfortable position. "Yes,
actually," he replied, and gave Holmes another one of his lopsided grins.
"Although you do realise this is bad for athleticism."
"Perhaps you should try boxing," Holmes said, and Watson laughed.
 
                                       ~
 
Things didn't change, until Holmes realised they had.
He didn't acknowledge it the following day, when he found Watson smoking his
tobacco in the study as he did his prep work, or the day after, when Watson
passed him in the halls, met his eyes, and said, "Afternoon, Holmes."
Holmes didn't acknowledge that anything had changed until two weeks later, when
it suddenly occurred to him that the Christmas holidays were just around the
corner and he wouldn't see Watson for almost a month. The cold, hollow
sensation in his stomach was most distressing, and he tried to concentrate on a
volume on anthropology to distract himself from Watson's talk of his family's
plans.
"My brother isn't even coming home from Glasgow, although it doesn't surprise
me," Watson was saying, tossing a cricket ball in his free hand as he circled
the room. His limp was becoming less pronounced as time wore on—or perhaps
Holmes had simply grown used to it. "I'll mostly be alone in that drafty old
house, much like every other Christmas. Perhaps this holiday my mother will
give me a dog like I've always wanted."
Holmes heard him laugh, but he also caught the underlying wistfulness. He
pictured Watson as a much younger boy, wandering the lonely halls of a
sprawling estate. It made his chest ache for some ridiculous reason. He shook
his head, scowling at the book in his lap.
"What, you don't think I deserve a dog?" Watson had stopped his pacing at the
window seat, and he poked at Holmes' foot with his cane.
Holmes could feel himself blush, but he ignored it. "Dogs are vastly
overrated," he sniffed. "Besides, you'd only be with it for a few weeks. That
would be cruel."
"Why Holmes, you sound like a naturalist, thinking of a dog's feelings."
"I was referring to you and your delicate sensibilities," he replied smoothly,
batting Watson's cane away. "I'm sure the dog would love am empty house to run
amok in."
"But he wouldn't be so fond of my mother." Watson climbed onto the window seat
beside Holmes, and Holmes made room for him to stretch his leg out without
hardly a thought, pressing his back against the window. He wanted to be
irritated that Watson had interrupted his reading, but he had learned that it
was difficult to be angry with Watson when he sought out Holmes' company.
"Where are you spending Christmas?" Watson asked, not quite meeting Holmes'
eyes.
Holmes shrugged, fidgeting with the pages of his book. "It's not official, but
I think I'll be going to London to spend the holiday with my brother. I haven't
visited him in his new digs."
"What about your parents?"
"They are not all that fond of London," Holmes replied, deliberately
misinterpreting the question.
Watson sighed. "You know what I meant. Won't you be seeing them?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not." He didn't want to discuss his father's disappointment
in his youngest son, or his mother's exasperation at his oddities. Mycroft was
the only family he needed. They'd send their parents a wire on Christmas Eve,
and that would be that.
"At least you'll be in London. Edinburgh is decidedly less exciting," Watson
said, rolling the cricket ball against his leg. Holmes stared at the curve of
Watson's fingers over the leather, the flex of the tendons in the back of his
hand.
"Have you been to London?" he asked, tearing his eyes away and turning back to
his book.
"Once or twice. It's fantastic."
Holmes caught himself before he asked with whom Watson had visited London. He
had no business asking about Watson's private life. He reminded himself (for
the dozenth time, at least) that just because he and Watson had engaged in—in
activities that were common among schoolboys everywhere didn't mean that they
were friends. Holmes wouldn't have been surprised if Watson had indulged in
that pastime before; he was, after all, two years older and adored by everyone
at Leighton.
The thought of Watson stretched out on the settee with another nameless,
faceless boy made Holmes' stomach clench with sickening fierceness. It didn't
make any sense at all—Holmes wasn't the least bit interested in the complicated
drama of secret trysts that went on behind closed doors, providing fodder for
the gossip mongers. The whole thing was a huge waste of time, a distraction,
nothing more.
Not that Holmes knew much about it...very little, actually, if he was being
honest, save the two evenings in Watson's study and countless silent nights
alone with his hand in bed. He doubted the latter truly counted.
Beside him, Watson shifted a bit restlessly, and when Holmes glanced up he
found him frowning cautiously.
"What is it?" Watson asked, holding the cricket ball to his chest. "I don't
wish to pry, Holmes, I was merely—"
"It's nothing." Holmes shook his head, suddenly wishing to be alone. "I can't
concentrate with you blathering. We've discussed our holiday plans enough, I
think." He drew his knees to his chest, burying his nose in his book.
In his peripheral vision he saw Watson bite his lip before he eased himself off
the window seat. But he left his cricket ball behind, and it rolled across the
cushion until it came to rest against Holmes' hip.
Holmes made certain Watson wasn't looking when he picked up the ball and held
it in his hand, the leather still warm from Watson's skin.
 
                                       ~
 
Their last session together was on a Thursday evening; the next day was the
beginning of the Christmas holiday and the school grounds would soon be empty,
the houses quiet as the boys headed home to their families. As if anticipating
the arrival of the Christmas season, the air had turned bitterly cold, matching
the flat grey of the sky. By noon, white flecks of snow floated through the
air.
In spite of the empty house that awaited him in Edinburgh, John usually enjoyed
the holidays as a welcome break from his schooling. For the next several weeks,
he would be free of responsibility and the weight of perfect marks. The
pressure of university still loomed in the distance, but for now there was only
Christmas and New Year and blessed freedom.
Except in the back of his mind there was lingering tug of something he couldn't
quite define, something heavy, almost sad. If he were forced to put a name to
it, John would call it impending loneliness, and yet he'd grown accustomed to
having only a few family members home at Christmas time. Very rarely did his
brother decide to join them, and his father tended to be intoxicated even more
than usual at the holidays. The latter wasn't a subject John discussed with
anyone, ever—as far as his Leighton friends were concerned, John's father was a
successful businessman who prided himself on his son's academic and athletic
achievements. No one needed to know that his father rarely asked John about
school; he'd made it clear that he wanted a doctor son, and John was trying his
best to honour that wish, but he didn't receive much praise for it.
As he'd grown older, John had learned to accept his father's silence; he had
all the praise and adoration he needed at Leighton. It was enough.
Yet he couldn't shake the growing empty feeling as the holidays drew closer.
And it felt especially intense during that final evening in his study as he
watched Holmes wander back and forth across the rug, humming softly under his
breath as he scribbled in his tiny black notebook.
John heard him mumble something that sounded like, "Wonder if he's still got a
microscope," under his breath, tapping his pencil against his chin.
"What on earth are you planning now?" John asked. He was attempting to pick
books for the trip home. He tended to do quite a bit of reading during the
holidays, so he normally took every book he owned, making his trunk
ridiculously heavy.
Holmes held up a finger to silence John for a moment, then beamed triumphantly.
"Experiments," he replied happily. "While I don't have all the proper
equipment, Mycroft has something of a makeshift lab of his own. I've been
rather desperate to try to prove a hypothesis of mine for months."
John rolled his eyes, but a smile was tugging hard at his lips. Since Holmes
had admitted two weeks ago that he'd accidentally caused an explosion in the
chemistry lab at Dryden—"No, really, it was a very insignificant explosion,
Watson, I assure you"—John had learned a great many things about Holmes that
had, up until that point, been a mystery, namely the true reason for his
expulsion. He hadn't nearly killed a pupil, or burned down an entire building.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have used the headmaster's spaniel as a test subject,"
Holmes had said with a sheepish duck of his head. "But how else was I to test
the effects of paralysis on animals?"
What's more, John had learned that Holmes' little black notebook was home to
the many jumbled, random thoughts that flitted through his mind like fireflies.
They were mostly equations and queries (Is spontaneous combustion really
possible??), barely legible in Holmes' careless scrawl.
He was obsessed with science. And John found that to be more than a little
fascinating.
"I do hope your brother is adept at putting out fires," John said, smirking
over his shoulder at Holmes.
"I'll have you know it was Mycroft himself who gave me my first book on
chemistry," Holmes replied indignantly. "So, if I happen to set something on
fire, he has only himself to blame."
John laughed. "I wonder what he would say about that?"
Holmes tipped his chin up defensively, but there was a glimmer in his eyes. Not
for the first time, John found himself wanting to reach out and touch him, skim
his fingers over Holmes' arm and see if he could make his eyes go dark again.
They hadn't touched at all since the evening John's leg gave out, and while
Holmes had been decidedly friendlier, at times he seemed more guarded around
John than ever before. Though he'd shared certain confidences, like his
expulsion from Dryden, there were days when he would barely look at John, and
provided only monosyllabic responses to his questions.
"There should not even be a chance of fire," Holmes murmured, more to himself
than John as he began to pace again, scribbling furiously.
As he turned away, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Holmes
appeared oblivious to it and, after a moment, John took it upon himself to
kneel down and pick it up. He had every intention of handing it back to Holmes,
but at the last second his curiosity got the better of him.
The paper was folded over several times, its edges slightly worn. John's eyes
caught the words Dear Sherlock and knew immediately that it was a letter.
His heart beat a little faster as he guiltily scanned the handwritten words:
Dear Sherlock,
How are things at Leighton? It has been deathly dull here since you left, to
say the least. I have no sparring partner, and my reading collection has become
quite thin. Will you be returning home for the holidays? If not, I'm sure the
summer months will provide ample time for us to catch up. I am in desperate
need of a good intellectual conversation.
Never doubt that you are missed, friend.
Victor
It wasn't until John had finished reading that he realised he'd been holding
his breath. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that this Victor had been a friend
of Holmes' from Dryden, and obviously they'd been close. John swallowed tightly
as he reread sparring partner and good intellectual conversation. Yes, they'd
been quite close indeed.
He bit his lip, looking up to see if Holmes had noticed his letter was missing.
John wondered when the letter had been sent, how long Holmes had carried it
around in between the pages of his notebook, like a cherished secret. John felt
his cheeks flush, and his hand suddenly twitched angrily with the irrational
desire to shred the letter into bits.
Instead, he took a deep breath and several slow, deliberate steps toward
Holmes. His hand only shook a bit as he held the letter out.
"I believe this is yours," John said gruffly. He prayed his blush was not as
obvious as it felt.
Holmes halted his pacing and turned around, frowning irritably. Then his eyes
landed on the paper John was holding out to him.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, eyes wide. John's blush was soon mirrored
on Holmes' own cheeks.
"It fell. From your notebook."
He watched Holmes' throat bob as he swallowed. "You read it, didn't you?"
John wanted to lie, but he knew Holmes already knew the answer. "I didn't mean
to, it just—"
"That is private property," Holmes snapped, snatching the letter from John's
fingers. "You had no right." He shoved the folded paper into the pages of his
notebook, but John saw the slight trembling in his fingers.
"He was your friend at Dryden," John said, surprised by his almost accusatory
tone of voice.
"And what of it? I never said I didn't have friends there!" Holmes glared at
him with an intensity John had not seen before.
The words tumbled out of John's mouth before he could stop them. "Does he write
to you often?"
For a moment, Holmes blinked at him in surprise, the anger fading from his
eyes. Then his mouth twisted a little to one side. "No, he doesn't. This is the
only letter he's sent since I left." Holmes folded his arms over his chest,
shoulders curled in.
John's mind was buzzing with a dozen unanswered questions, questions he had no
business asking. He couldn't think clearly, nor could he fathom what possessed
him to suddenly blurt out, "He—he fancies you, you know."
Never in his life would John have imagined that he could catch Holmes off his
guard, but his mouth dropped open as he stared at John in shock. He looked
strangely young and innocent. "That's...not possible," Holmes whispered.
"Of course it is, it's quite obvious." John mimicked Holmes' stance, arms
hugged to his chest. I'm sure he misses you in many ways, he thought bitterly,
and good lord, what was wrong with him?
Holmes' face had gone quite pink and he fumbled with the notebook in his hands.
"But I don't—it can't—I haven't—"
"It's of no consequence to me," John replied sharply. He turned back to his
stack of books, closing his eyes to calm the erratic pounding of his heart. He
did not care about the friends in Holmes' life, or what they meant to him, or
the secrets they shared. He didn't care about any of it, and he repeated this
mantra in his mind as he tossed books into his trunk with too much force.
"I don't think of him that way."
John paused mid-toss and glanced back at Holmes. He was still clutching the
notebook in his hands, licking nervously over his lips, brown eyes impossibly
wide.
John grit his teeth. "It doesn't matter to me."
"But it makes no sense, I—we are friends, Victor and me. Good friends. But I
have never thought of—of doing the things that I've—"
That I've done with you Holmes did not say, but it was obvious to John that was
what he was thinking. The room was terribly stuffy all of a sudden.
"What makes you think wanting someone must be mutual?" he asked roughly.
Holmes shrugged. "I don't know," he replied, sounding lost, and an ache spread
through every inch of John's body.
He shook his head and went back his books. "I'm sorry, Holmes, I shouldn't have
pried. You're absolutely right, it's none of my business."
Holmes didn't reply, and later John looked over and saw him sitting crosslegged
on the rug by the fire, lost in thought. John let out a slow breath, feeling
the tension ease from his shoulders, his heart slowing its frantic pace.
They kept a somewhat companionable silence for the next twenty minutes or so,
until the clock told them their hour was up.
"You should go and pack," John said, closing the lid of his trunk. "When does
your train leave in the morning?"
"Not sure. Eight, maybe. You?" Holmes gathered his tobacco box and books
slowly, his eyes downcast.
"Prefects are required to stay until everyone else has vacated the houses. I
won't be leaving until tomorrow evening." He drummed his fingers lightly
against the trunk. "Well. I do hope you and Mycroft have a nice holiday."
"You as well."
"We'll resume our sessions after the holidays?" John hadn't meant for it to be
a question.
Holmes ran a hand absently through his hair as he came to stop beside John's
desk, books tucked under his arm. "Yes," he said, and then he smiled at John,
tentative and small. "Unless you decide to be rid of me once the new term
begins."
John couldn't help smiling back. "Then who would I torture three nights a
week?"
"Some other poor hopeless soul, whom I would pity greatly." His smile
broadened, showing his teeth and causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
"Maybe this other poor soul won't smoke so much," John replied, and a desperate
little part of him wanted to keep making Holmes smile like that at him.
"You're so naïve. More students smoke at this school than you think."
"Yes, but only one of them does it in my study."
"And that one student also shares his tobacco with you, so you should show a
little gratitude." Holmes dragged his teeth over his lower lip as he smiled,
and John felt lightheaded for a moment, reckless...
He cleared his throat and held his hand out to Holmes. "I'll simply say Happy
Christmas and be done with it, yes?"
Holmes laughed quietly. "All right." He closed his hand around John's and they
shook like friends parting for a time, nothing more.
But John's heart was suddenly in his throat, and he held Holmes' hand a beat
too long. He noticed, too, that Holmes did not let go. The air between them
went thick and heated, their eyes locked on each other, and John watched,
breathless, as Holmes slowly licked his mouth, his pupils going quite wide and
dark.
"I should go," he whispered.
"Yes," John breathed.
"I have to pack." He could feel Holmes' thumb skim over the veins in the back
of his hand.
"I know."
"You—" Holmes swallowed tightly, and John could hear the moment his breathing
turned shallow. "Have a safe journey."
"You, too." John could barely hear him over the rush of blood in his ears.
They both paused, as if suspended in time together. In the end it was Holmes
who eventually pressed forward, forcing John to stumble backward until his legs
hit the edge of the desk behind him. His right hand flew back to catch himself
while the other splayed against Holmes' chest, sliding up to curl around his
neck. His skin was so very warm, and Holmes gasped, shuddered at the simple
touch of John's fingers.
For a terrifying, heady moment, John considered kissing him. Their lips were a
few bare inches apart, and Holmes' mouth was parted and shiny and full. But
Holmes ducked his head away the instant John tilted his chin up, panting as his
hands found their way to John's waist, his books and tobacco box tumbling to
the floor. John couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed.
It was an awkward stance, but John managed to shift against him, insinuating
his leg between Holmes' thighs. He reveled in the way Holmes gritted his teeth
and swallowed a strangled moan at the first press of their hips, his eyes
fluttering closed. They were both fully hard, and John could feel the shiver of
heat building in his stomach just from the simple friction of Holmes flush
against him.
John's eyes wanted to close as well, but he wanted to watch Holmes come apart
and know it was because of him. Deep down, he wanted to know he was only one
could affect Holmes like this.
It ended too quickly, their grinding, desperate rhythm fast and rough. Holmes
groaned into John's neck, mouth hot and open, and John thought he heard Holmes
choke on his name, his first name, but he couldn't be sure. Regardless, the
possibility of it sent him over the edge, and John finally screwed his eyes
shut, gasping as he saw sparks of white.
Holmes fell rather ungracefully against him, his hands clinging to John's
shirt. His face was still buried in John's neck, and John's hand was tangled in
Holmes' hair. They didn't move for several long moments, the silence punctuated
by the sounds of their laboured breaths.
Eventually John's injured leg began to throb, and he hissed in pain.
"Sorry, sorry," Holmes murmured, untangling himself from their awkward embrace.
The bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks were stained pink, and his
hair was thoroughly messy. And John was loathe to let him go.
"I'll...see you in January, then," Holmes said, gathering his things off the
floor. There was a distinct wet spot over the front of his trousers, but John
knew Holmes had worn a wool coat.
"January," John repeated stupidly. "Yes. Safe travels, Holmes." He could do
nothing but sprawl bonelessly against his desk, dazed and sated.
Holmes nodded as he shrugged into his coat, not quite meeting Watson's eyes. He
tugged at his hair absently, scanning the room with a similar dazed expression
before he stumbled slightly out the door.
 
                                       ~
 
Christmas was as quiet and uneventful as it was every year. The few times John
came face to face with his father were polite and quick, filled with the
obligatory questions about his schooling.
Although after taking one look at the cane John was leaning against, his father
said carelessly, "You're not relying on that thing too heavily, I hope? No one
wants a crippled doctor attending to them."
A familiar angry heat rushed through him, but John replied, "No, father. The
doctor says I should be completely healed by the spring."
"Ah, good. Still, 'tis a shame your football days are behind you. I would have
liked to watch one of your matches at school."
That would require one to be sober for a good portion of the day, John thought,
as he watched his father finish the rest of his brandy.
That evening John lay on his bed with his pile of books, but nothing held his
attention; his father's words kept flitting through his mind. The only thing
that seemed to cut through his frustrated rage was the image of Holmes, smoking
in the window seat of his study, smirking at John as they argued. John closed
his eyes and focused on the memory of Holmes' voice, the quick, urgent cadence
with which he spoke when he was anxious or excited. He thought of Holmes
smiling shyly at him after he'd given John his first cigarette, and the way
he'd gasped when John touched his skin for the first time.
Gradually, a calm washed over him, and he fell asleep on top of the covers,
books scattered around his feet.
 
                                       ~
 
John couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he decided to write Holmes a letter. He
didn't wake the following morning and suddenly put pen to paper, but he did
catch himself thinking more about Holmes' friend from Dryden, more than what
was logical. He wondered if Holmes would wire and invite him to come and stay.
He wondered if Victor made Holmes smile without even trying.
His thoughts reached ridiculous proportions when John found himself looking
into the mirror one morning and scrubbing the back of his hand over the soft
stubble covering his cheeks, contemplating whether Victor was as tall as he,
and what colour eyes he had. John had always received compliments about his
eyes, but he didn't think they were anything special. Victor most likely had
brown eyes, the same as Holmes.
He blinked at himself in the mirror. God, he was truly going mad. He'd never
even met this boy, and yet he was all but hating him for no reason.
This madness somehow led John to sit at his desk later that day with a fresh
piece of stationery and his mother's good fountain pen. He could not begin a
letter with Dear Sherlock—it was impossible for John to refer to Holmes by his
Christian name. Besides, he knew Holmes would read the first line and think
something was amiss.
Dear Holmes,
Hope you are enjoying London and your brother's digs. Did he have the
microscope you were so keen to use? Whatever experiments you had planned, I
sincerely hope you return to Leighton in one piece.
John paused, reading over his handwriting. Then he groaned, dropping his head
into his hands.
He did not have Holmes' brother's address. There was no way for him to send the
letter.
He wadded the paper into a ball and threw it across the room with a loud sigh,
folding his arms on the desk.
His eyes lit on an old, unused journal that stood against a set of mystery
anthologies on the book shelf beside him. His mother had given it to him years
ago as a birthday gift, but John had never been much for writing. However, he
thought of Holmes' little black notebook filled with his scribblings.
John took the journal off the shelf and opened it to the first clean page. He
chewed his lip for a moment, pen poised, and suddenly began to write.
 
                                       ~
 
On the eve of Holmes' birthday, Mycroft asked, "Shall I present you with a
gift, or would you prefer to carry on without fanfare?"
Christmas had been an equally simple affair, and Holmes could not think of a
single material thing he craved. Save one.
He smiled at his brother and replied with all the eager excitement of a boy on
the verge of turning sixteen, "There is something you can give me, and it won't
cost you a farthing unless you are feeling especially lucky."
Mycroft merely laughed and shook his head.
The following evening, Holmes stood in the centre of the boxing ring,
surrounded by the chaos of the club, the smell of sweat and blood and dust. His
opponent was at least five years older than he, if not more, and several inches
taller. When Holmes threw his first punch, the man laughed.
It was the greatest birthday Holmes had ever had, regardless of the bruises and
the black eye he took back to Mycroft's.
A few days later, he boarded the train for Leighton. Holmes waited for the
sinking sense of dread he usually felt at returning to school, but it never
came. Instead, he felt a strange rush of anticipation.
"Please tell your headmasters that I didn't beat you to a bloody pulp over the
holidays," Mycroft said, ruffling Holmes' hair affectionately.
Holmes rolled his eyes and laughed. "I don't look so terrible. The other fellow
is much worse off."
"Yes, but he won the fight." Mycroft clucked his tongue. "Perhaps your Watson
can take a look at your eye, if he's going to be a doctor."
At the mention of Watson's name, Holmes' cheeks went warm. "Don't call him
that."
Mycroft smiled. "No? For the entire holiday I heard nothing but 'Watson this,'
'Watson that,' 'Watson would agree with me.' I feel as if I know the young man
personally."
Holmes tugged a hand through his hair, kicking at his trunk. "He'll probably
chastise me for fighting."
"Then I know I like him already." The guard called for final boarding, and
Mycroft patted Holmes' shoulder and bade him farewell.
Leighton was covered in a light dusting of snow when Holmes arrived, and
everything felt brighter somehow, full of potential. He stood before the
archway of his house, thinking that this must be how Watson felt at the start
of a new term.
He shook himself, ignoring the tiny flutter in his chest when he thought of
Haverford House. Holmes was ready for a change of scenery, having spent the
better part of a month at Mycroft's rooms. Even when Bradford and Collins later
greeted him with their customary sneers, Holmes was unfazed.
Lessons began the next morning, and Holmes told himself it was like any other
day. He shrugged into his blazer, tied his tie haphazardly, and left without
even glancing at himself in a mirror. His eye still felt a bit tender, as did
the bruises along his abdomen, but it made him feel alive, as if he could take
on the world.
It wasn't until nearly lunch time that he saw Watson in the halls. Holmes
pretended that he didn't feel breathless, that his heart did not run a little
faster, and that he didn't notice how golden Watson's hair looked when he
passed through the sun beams shining through the windows. Watson was alone,
head bowed as he flipped through the pages of a book.
If he wanted, Holmes could have stood to one side and let Watson pass. He could
have turned his back and walked the other way.
Instead, Holmes called out his name, making Watson came to an abrupt stop, head
jerking up in surprise. His wide blue eyes met Holmes', and for a moment they
stared at one another.
Holmes cleared his throat as he took a step closer. The hall was rather
crowded, but neither seemed to notice. "You had a nice holiday, I take it?"
But Watson frowned at him and replied sharply, "What is this?," his fingers
skimming over the bruise around Holmes' left eye. Holmes flinched with pain and
the shock of having Watson touch him so unexpectedly, and so publicly.
"Birthday present," Holmes said with a lopsided grin. It took considerable will
not to lean into Watson's hand, which was now cupping the side of Holmes' face,
his thumb tracing the edge of the blackened skin.
"You were in a fight?" Watson looked furious, his jaw clenched tightly.
"A gentleman's fight, Watson, complete with a rapt audience. Sadly, the ring
wasn't kind to me—or to my opponent."
"You're bloody insane. I can't believe Mycroft let you do this to yourself."
"My brother doesn't let me do anything, he merely provides me with advice when
I'm being an idiot. He fulfilled his duty admirably in this case, but not
before losing a day's wages."
To Holmes' dismay, Watson dropped his hand. He still glared at Holmes, but
there was a faint flush across his nose. "Are—are you hurt elsewhere?"
There it was again, a distinct fluttering, like a moth caged within his ribs.
"No, I couldn't be better," Holmes replied, suddenly acutely aware of the
crowded hall they stood in.
Watson huffed as he scratched a hand across his cheek. "Well, then I shall see
you this evening at seven o'clock sharp," he said in a clipped, formal tone.
"I'm glad you had an enjoyable holiday, Holmes." He didn't wait for Holmes to
respond before turning back down the hallway and disappearing into the flow of
students.
Holmes absently rubbed his knuckles over his bruised cheekbone. "Yes, this
evening," he murmured to himself, heart still thumping heavily.
That's when it dawned on him. It was Monday.
For the rest of day, Holmes could scarcely think of anything but what might
happen in Watson's study that evening. He tried to believe it was a regular
session, but the memory of their last hour together before the holidays was
still fresh in his mind. Holmes remembered every hitch of Watson's breath,
every tiny moan, every hard, desperate press of his hips. What's more, he
remembered the moment when it had seemed almost certain that Watson would kiss
him, and Holmes, having not the slightest idea how to handle such a thing, had
ducked his head in self-preservation.
By the time seven o'clock arrived, Holmes was vibrating with an anticipation
that bordered on dread. He smoked on his way to Haverford House, hiding the fag
under his blazer whenever he passed someone. It was a foolish thing to do, but
Holmes needed to calm his nerves. He had no books with him, no reading
materials at all; if it turned out to be a regular study session, Holmes would
claim his seat by the window and read one of Watson's medical journals.
He stood in front of Watson's study door and almost knocked, fingertips pressed
to the wood. Then he shook his head and dug out his key.
Watson was pacing in front of the fire, lost in thought, hands shoved into the
pockets of his trousers. He was finally walking without his cane, and there was
only a faint trace of a limp in his step. He wasn't wearing a blazer and he'd
discarded his collar, rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, and shoved his
braces off his shoulders. Holmes' lungs grew tight as he watched Watson frown
into the fire, worrying his lower lip.
He managed to clear his throat, jerking Watson from his reverie.
"I—" Watson blinked a few times before he gave Holmes a small, tentative smile.
"Sorry. I realised after we parted ways that today isn't Tuesday, which means
you're not required to be here, and I wasn't sure if you would...that is, uh—"
It took Holmes a moment to realise that Watson, the cool and collected prefect,
was babbling. "Would you rather I hadn't come?" Holmes asked, swallowing with
difficulty. His dread had vanished the instant Watson smiled at him.
"No, no, that's not—" Watson sighed sharply, raking a hand through his hair.
Then, to Holmes' surprise, he laughed softly. "My holiday was deadly dull.
Unlike some, I did not spend it throwing myself into the boxing ring."
"It was only once," Holmes murmured. He wasn't quite sure where Watson was
going with this line of conversation.
"And yet you've accumulated another black eye for your collection, and I can
only imagine the—the tales you could tell about the experience."
Holmes shrugged, blushing a little. "But I lost."
"Yes, that round. But you've fought before, haven't you?"
"Not in the clubs, only at school. I boxed with Victor..." He wished he
understood why Watson insisted on bringing up Holmes' only real friend from
Dryden. Holmes missed him, yes, but Victor was nothing like...well. Victor was
nothing like the students at Leighton.
Watson looked away and said in a casual tone that was quite at odds with his
stiff shoulders, "Yes, I concluded as much. Of course, you have no sparring
partner here."
"No, I don't. Unless you count the unofficial ones," Holmes said. He crossed
his arms over his chest and stayed in the centre of the room, not quite
trusting himself closer to Watson.
Watson nodded. "I had planned on writing to you," he said quickly, eyes cast
somewhere over Holmes' shoulder.
Holmes' heart thumped hard and heavy in his chest. "I received no letter," he
replied, having a brief moment of panic that Mycroft had hidden it from him on
a lark.
"It wasn't a very well thought out plan," Watson said sheepishly. "I didn't
have the address."
"Oh." Holmes told himself that what he was feeling was relief, not
disappointment. "Did you write to anyone over the holiday?"
Watson looked almost shy. "I did not write letters, per se. But I did do some
writing." He slid his hands back into his trouser pockets, shifting from foot
to foot.
"What sorts of writing?"
He rolled his shoulders, and tried not to blush. "Stories, mostly. Frivolous
things."
Holmes grinned. "Watson, you wrote fiction? Do tell."
"It's nothing, Holmes, just—just scribblings to pass the time."
"May I read them?"
"You most certainly cannot."
"They're in this room, aren't they?" Holmes glanced about the study, already
concocting a strategy for locating the stories when Watson was not present. "Of
course they are."
"Holmes."
"No worries, your secret is safe with me. However, should you want to write
about my experience at the London boxing club, I shall have to insist on my cut
of the profits once you are published." He smirked, wondering if Watson kept a
journal hidden beneath the floorboards, or a pile of papers stuffed in the
settee' cushions, or—
Watson stormed across the room and abruptly locked the study door. Holmes
blinked, expecting Watson to yell, or at least end the discussion and insist
that Holmes keep to himself for the rest of the hour.
Instead, Watson leaned against the door for a long moment, eyes closed as he
took a deep breath.
"Come here," he finally whispered.
Holmes hesitated, heart beating too fast. "Watson, I'm—"
"Don't argue, just come here."
It took Holmes five steps to reach Watson. He looked up at Watson's closed
eyes, the slight part of his lips, the colour in his cheeks. He was overcome
with the urge to simply fall forward and let their mouths connect.
But when Watson met his gaze, his blue, blue eyes dark and lovely and
terrifying, Holmes was overwhelmed in a way he could not begin to define. He
bit his lip, teeth barely catching on the soft flesh, and Watson's gaze tracked
the movement, breath puffing out softly.
You can kiss me this time, Holmes thought hazily, but Watson did not kiss him.
Instead, he slowly slid his hands under Holmes' blazer and pushed it to the
floor, tangling his hands in the front of Holmes' shirt. Holmes gasped, thought
yes, and tipped his chin up, inadvertently skimming his mouth over Watson's
throat.
Watson shuddered and moaned, and Holmes all but melted against him, their hips
instantly picking up the rhythm they had not forgotten. Holmes wanted to be
embarrassed at how quickly he'd gone blindingly, achingly hard, but he could
feel the hot, stark outline of Watson's prick pressed against him, and it was
Watson who was choking back desperate little moans. Holmes splayed his hands
against the door on either side of Watson's shoulders and ground into him,
biting the inside of his cheek to keep from calling out.
He was seconds away from orgasm when Watson gasped, "Wait, wait." He put his
hands on Holmes' chest and pushed gently.
"What is it, did I—is something wrong?" Holmes' stomach dropped like a stone in
mortification. Perhaps Watson was done fumbling with someone so inexperienced,
someone who flinched away at the mere suggestion of a kiss—
"No, it's—I want—" Watson huffed, then smiled sheepishly and began awkwardly
pulling at Holmes' flies.
"I...want to touch you," he whispered, and Holmes had to shut his eyes to
regain control, shivering violently. What Watson was suggesting was—oh, god. If
he thought about it he would go off that instant.
He didn't watch when Watson slid his fingers over the wet tip of his prick. He
wanted to rip open Watson's own flies and touch him as well, but it was all too
much. The shock of it was enough to have him coming against Watson's fingertips
within seconds. He gasped until he was nearly sobbing, his orgasm intense to
the point of pain. Holmes buried his face in Watson's shoulder and sagged
against him. "Fuck, Watson."
Watson's hips were still pushing into him, frantic and uneven. Through his
post-bliss fog, Holmes felt the moment Watson froze, a growl slipping out
through his clenched teeth. His body went pliant against Holmes', and he had no
desire to move. He wanted to stand there forever just breathing Watson in.
A moment later, fingers tugged gently through Holmes' hair. "I don't write
about you," Watson murmured. Holmes could hear the drowsy smile in his voice.
"Maybe you should. You seem to think I live an adventurous life." His words
were muffled slightly as he tucked himself closer, heedless of the mess between
them.
"I never said that. I distinctly remember saying you were a bloody fool,
actually."
"I believe the two are not mutually exclusive."
There was a pause while Watson trailed his fingers down Holmes' neck. "Happy
Birthday, by the way."
Holmes sighed and closed his eyes, hiding his smile.
 
                                       ~
The term progressed like every other for Holmes. There were the usual rows with
his classmates, the occasional argument with his ever-ignorant biology teacher
Mr. Shingler, and everyone else more or less left Holmes to his own devices.
Everything was decidedly normal.
Watson was the exception.
Mycroft had always been keen to remind Holmes of his obsessive personality, and
while Holmes was self-aware enough to acknowledge it, he had never been
obsessive about a person. It was a rather romantic idea, to be consumed by the
need to be with someone, to wish to be reminded of their existence on a daily
basis. And that was not how he felt about Watson, not at all—Holmes wasn't a
lovesick fool. While he may have been inexperienced in the physical act of sex,
he knew enough to not delude himself into thinking physical attraction meant
emotional attachment. That wasn't how these things worked. Watson had no need
for a romantic entanglement—and neither did Holmes.
But it was difficult to bear that in mind when he was being tugged into
Watson's study, collapsing awkwardly against his chest, laughing when Watson
kicked the door closed behind them and fumbled the lock as Holmes tugged his
shirttails from his trousers. Holmes had finally grown brave enough to open
Watson's trousers, and the initial feel of Watson's cock, hot and heavy in his
hand, had been utterly intoxicating. He'd cupped his palm over the tip,
smearing the slickness there, and Watson had groaned fiercely and spent himself
over Holmes' fingers.
Now they were able to take each other in hand, their knuckles brushing together
as they tried to keep some semblance of rhythm. Holmes was fascinated with the
sight of his prick pushing into Watson's hand, the contrast of dark red against
tanned skin; he was frequently torn between watching their hands and staring at
Watson's face. Watson would flush so brightly the instant Holmes touched him,
his throat bobbing as he swallowed, his eyes growing dark and heavy-lidded.
Holmes welcomed it when Watson shoved him down onto the settee so he could
flick his gaze down the length of his body and up to Watson's wet mouth
hovering above his.
They still had not kissed. Not that Holmes cared, of course.
When it was all over and they had put themselves to right, Holmes left his
tobacco tin out for Watson and curled up in the window seat with his violin.
He'd taken to playing little bits and pieces of music, but nothing that would
draw the attention of the students outside the study's walls. Every so often,
he'd look over to gauge Watson's reaction to the sonata he was playing, and if
Watson was smiling to himself as he smoked and read over his prep for the
night, then it was nothing more than a coincidence.
The night Holmes stayed past the required hour. Watson didn't say a word.
It became an almost nightly ritual: they would fall on each other the second
the study door closed, pawing at each other's clothes until one of them pulled
the other to the floor, or a chair, or the settee', and then it was a flurry of
hands and heat. The distance between them once their skin had cooled and their
shirts had been buttoned steadily diminished, until they never quite stopped
touching one another. Holmes would sit and read beside the settee, head resting
against Watson's thigh, or Watson would settle himself in the window seat with
his feet in Holmes' lap while he wrote in his journal.
They never spoke about the constant contact, much to Holmes' relief. He didn't
want to know if Watson was merely being polite, or if he was simply growing
accustomed to their easy relationship now that they were no longer at each
other's throats.
In fact, they never spoke of anything that went on in Watson's study, and while
Holmes told himself it was the best course of action—boys did not discuss their
affairs publicly, after all—he couldn't help the growing sense of disconnection
during the day whenever he and Watson passed each other in the halls. Watson
would nod his head politely, call Holmes by name, and that was that. To the
casual onlooker, they appeared to have become friends.
But Holmes would watch Watson with his football teammates, and the comfortable
familiarity he had with them made Holmes' chest ache. Watson would laugh freely
with them, shove playfully at their shoulders, and all Holmes could think of
was the way Watson's hands had splayed so very carefully over his bare chest
the night before, the way his voice turned soft and soothing when Holmes had
flinched as Watson unbuttoned his shirt.
"Tell me where this is from," Watson had whispered, skimming his fingers over a
scar along Holmes' abdomen.
"I fell off the roof." Holmes breathed, his own fingers tripping over the
buttons of Watson's shirt. He'd kept his gaze lowered, wishing they weren't so
near the fire, which threw his skin into stark relief. "I was seven and thought
I could catch a raven perched outside my window."
Watson laughed softly. "And did you?" He was standing nearly flush against
Holmes, their hips brushing together.
Holmes shook his head, feeling somewhat dazed as he finally parted Watson's
shirt and slid his hands over warm skin and hard lines of muscle and bone. "No,
but I did break my leg in three places. My mother swears it stunted my growth."
"Well, you are quite short."
"Shut up, I am not. You're barely taller than me." His mouth grew wet at the
thought of leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Watson's collarbone.
"I do have longer legs." Watson bit his lip, moaning when Holmes' thumbs
brushed over his nipples, and they stopped talking after that.
Holmes watched Watson with his friends across the quad, fighting against the
memory. It was a secret, like Watson's writing, like Holmes' violin; none of it
was meant to exist in the light of day. And now that Watson's leg was healing,
there wasn't much of a need for him to spend his spare time indoors.
As if to punctuate Holmes' thoughts, Pierce whispered something in Watson's
ear, and Watson laughed and wrinkled his nose in a boyishly charming way that
Holmes had never seen before. The expression was carefree, happy, and Holmes
had a sudden urge to break Pierce's nose.
Watson chose that moment to meet Holmes' eyes, and Holmes, feeling off-centre
and irrationally angry, fell back into old habits and glared fiercely at him
before stalking away to hide in the library. He imagined he heard Pierce's
laughter trailing behind him.
He spent the rest of the afternoon losing himself in chemistry texts, teaching
himself new formulas and equations. He didn't think about the momentary flicker
of hurt in Watson's ridiculous blue eyes. He didn't think about Watson at all.
Holmes considered not going to Haverford House that evening. He doubted Watson
would say anything, for as it stood Holmes had never missed a session. He could
claim illness, or a need to complete his prep in privacy.
But at seven o'clock, he found himself once more unlocking the door and
standing in Watson's study, the anger from earlier that afternoon still burning
beneath his skin.
Watson looked up from where he was seated on the settee, both legs folded on
the cushions. He smiled cautiously at Holmes as he set his prep aside, and the
anger inside Holmes flared into something else entirely.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't wish to, but today, on the quad, you
seemed—" Watson paused, worried the corner of his lip. "Is everything all
right?"
Holmes found it difficult to swallow around the knot in his throat. "I'm fine,"
he replied hoarsely.
Watson unfolded his bad leg and let it stretch out before him, his gaze wide
and imploring. Holmes hated that look, for it never failed to make him feel as
if Watson could see straight through him. "You're not angry with me?"
He wished Watson would go back to ignoring Holmes like he had done in the
beginning, and then none of this would be happening. He twisted his mouth to
one side, heat spreading across his cheeks, and stared at the floor, unable to
formulate a proper response.
"Because...because if you are, I want to apologise," Watson continued.
Holmes narrowed his gaze upon the rug. Damn Watson and his constant politeness
and infuriating, blue-eyed earnestness, and everything that was so confoundedly
him.
"Holmes?" Watson slowly got to his feet and walked towards him, arms hugged to
his chest. "I don't know what I've done to offend you, but I, I hate it when
you look at me like that, and I know I can be bloody ignorant sometimes, and—"
Holmes didn't want him talking anymore. He huffed loudly and backed Watson
against the wall beside his desk, oblivious when Watson nearly tripped over the
corner of the rug. Holmes didn't meet his eyes as he tore open Watson's flies
with shaking hands, pushing his shirttails and undergarments out of the way to
palm Watson's cock. Holmes hissed as he felt Watson grow to full hardness in
his hand.
"H-Holmes, I—" Watson's voice cracked on his name, and later Holmes would blame
what followed on that tiny sound.
He dropped to his knees and spread his hands over Watson's thighs. There was a
roaring in his ears, a frantic pounding that told him he knew next to nothing
about what he was about to do, only what he'd heard whispered in the halls at
Dryden. But his mouth felt wet and desperate, and he longed to taste what he'd
seen and touched.
"Have you?" Holmes whispered, lips barely brushing against the tip of Watson's
prick.
"Have I what?" Watson gasped. He was already panting.
Holmes shut his eyes and steeled himself, then licked very carefully over the
hot, slick head. Watson jerked violently and cried out.
"Have you done this?" Holmes breathed. He wanted this for him and him alone.
Watson groaned like a dying man when Holmes licked him again. "No, god, never,
I—I never thought you'd want—" He shivered, biting off the last of his words.
It was enough for Holmes.
He was awkward at times, teeth scraping over too sensitive skin, forcing
himself not to gag when Watson hit the back of his throat by accident.
Everything felt too wet in a matter of seconds, and suddenly Watson was pawing
Holmes' hair, his body shaking under Holmes' hands.
He was not quite prepared for the abrupt flood of salt and heat, but Holmes
managed to swallow it down, grimacing as he let Watson's cock slip from his
mouth. His lungs were burning from the lack of air, and his jaw ached.
But none of that seemed to matter when Watson slid down the wall and collapsed
in a heap, flushed and gasping. He reached out and pulled Holmes close, eyes
dropping to Holmes' mouth for a brief moment.
It was Holmes' turn to shiver and choke back a moan as Watson's hand slid down
his shirt front and cupped him through his trousers. He'd barely been conscious
of his own arousal, he was so intent on breathing and not humiliating himself,
but the feel of Watson's palm grinding against his hard prick made Holmes
realise with a jolt that he was more aroused than he'd ever been in his life
and that he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"I can return the favour, if you'd like," Watson panted, and their lips were
so, so dangerously close. "I'll give it my best effort, I promise—"
Holmes was lost, the image of Watson on his knees too much to endure. He
shuddered and came against Watson's hand, biting his lip sharply enough to draw
blood.
They lay there slumped against one another, panting for breath, Watson's
forehead resting on Holmes' shoulder. Finally, Holmes whispered, "Your leg is
going to start to ache."
Watson groaned but didn't move. "It can wait a little longer."
Holmes ran his tongue over the bloodied part of his lip. He turned his head
until his mouth happened to press against Watson's temple. "I'm not angry with
you," he breathed, letting his eyes slip closed.
He felt the warm puff of Watson's sigh on his neck. "I'm glad," Watson
whispered.
Eventually they untangled themselves and cleaned up as best they could—Holmes
was more than a little grateful for the spare pair of trousers he kept hidden
under the window seat cushion. He had every intention of apologising to Watson
again and then returning to his house, but he had not counted on Watson sliding
his hand around his wrist and tugging him back to the settee. Holmes opened his
mouth to protest, only the protest turned into an enormous yawn, and Watson
laughed as Holmes dropped down ungracefully onto the cushions. He was aware of
Watson tucking himself behind him, slinging his arm across Holmes' waist, and
that was all.
When he awoke hours later, Watson was still there, a warm presence against his
back. It took more effort than Holmes was willing to admit to drag himself away
and slip out of the study, hurrying silently through the darkened school
grounds back to his own house.
 
                                       ~
 
There were moments when John wished he didn't know what it was like to fall
asleep next to someone. More accurately, he wished he didn't know what it was
like to have Holmes' soft and pliant against his chest, making tiny sounds in
his sleep. It was these moments that made John's feel a bit muddled, think
things he shouldn't. Until this final year, he had never considered himself to
be susceptible to distraction the way weaker-willed boys were. John considered
himself extremely focused and driven, and whilst he had felt the occasional
fluttering toward a friend now and then, he'd trained himself to ignore it,
always.
And yet...he could not ignore Holmes. He might as well try to stop breathing.
But, like everything else with Holmes, the situation was complicated. John
couldn't say what he wanted, if he wanted more than was already between them,
but he knew he truly hated the mornings after their nights together, especially
if they had happened to fall asleep. Holmes would be skittish as a feral cat,
avoiding John's eyes, and never speaking a word to him in the presence of
others. The closer they became in private, the more John felt like a stranger
to Holmes in public.
The morning after Holmes had taken it upon himself to pleasure John in a way
he'd only allowed himself to fantasize about a handful of times (and dear god,
he could not think of it during lessons or he'd embarrass himself horribly), he
rounded a corner with Pierce and ran straight into Holmes, nearly causing him
to drop his books.
Holmes turned bright red (John could not bear to see Holmes flush in public; it
seemed startlingly intimate) and ducked his head, mumbling his apologies before
scurrying down the hallway without looking back. John was very close to chasing
after him.
"He is such an odd little devil," Pierce said, shaking his head.
John swallowed. "He's not odd, just...different. Brilliant, actually."
"Watson, are you joking? Have you grown fond of your stray after playing
nursemaid to him for so many months?"
"I am not his bloody nursemaid," John growled, then gave in to the urge to
follow after Holmes. But he was long gone.
For the rest of the day John lost himself in his journal, which had slowly
grown into a rambling tale about a knight who had fallen from grace, only to be
called into battle once more to save his kingdom. It was melodramatic and
fanciful, but John, having been an avid fan of the Arthurian legends as a boy,
found it cathartic to simply let the words flow across the page. He did not,
however, plan on allowing Holmes to ever lay eyes on it. He'd never hear the
end of it.
He was at his desk that evening, his hand beginning to cramp from gripping his
pen, when Holmes slipped quietly into the room. He seemed distracted, his mouth
drawn into a tight frown of concentration as he absently pulled a cigarette
from his blazer pocket and lit it.
"Evening, Holmes," John said, shutting his journal.
Holmes didn't respond, only squinted at the window through the plume of smoke
he exhaled.
John took a deep breath. Heat crept up his neck as he said hastily, "If you
regret last night, I understand. We shan't speak of it again."
As if he'd just noticed John's presence, Holmes blinked at him. "Regret? No,
Watson, I don't regret what happened." As earnest as his words sounded, Holmes
still appeared lost in thought, eyes distant and calculating. He worried his
lower lip, then added, softer, "I...seem to have discovered something extremely
perplexing and disturbing. I've considered writing to Mycroft for advice, but I
fear waiting for a reply would inevitably delay any action I take for far too
long and render it useless."
John got up from his desk chair slowly. "What are you saying, Holmes?"
He shook his head. "I don't—Mycroft would know how to proceed. I should—I need
his advice on a very sensitive matter."
The air rushed from John's lungs as a strange rush of anticipation spread
through his body. "You could confide in me," he whispered. "Anything you share
with me will be safe as houses, I swear it."
Holmes' eyes widened. "But you're a prefect."
"In this room, in this moment, I am your friend." His heart beat a little
faster as the words tumbled from his mouth.
Holmes held his gaze, looking truly conflicted. He ran an agitated hand through
his hair, turning toward the fireplace and taking a last drag of his cigarette
before tossing it into the ashes.
"I believe there may have been a murder at Leighton," he said quietly, his back
to John.
John laughed uneasily. "A murder? You cannot be serious."
"If not murder, then something equally sinister."
"How can you be sure—"
"I am sure," Holmes replied sharply, casting a glare over his shoulder at John.
"And I know it occurred within the past forty-eight hours." His jaw clenched as
he mumbled under his breath, "I knew I should have wired Mycroft."
Skeptical as he was, John felt a stab of hurt that Holmes still did not trust
him. He cleared his throat. "Tell me what you know, Holmes."
He sighed deeply and folded arms around himself defensively. He was silent for
so long John assumed he would never answer, but eventually Holmes said, "You
cannot tell a soul. Not even Hollister."
John nodded. "I promise."
"This isn't some farce you can share with Pierce and the others."
"I won't, Holmes."
"This is—this is to remain between us."
There wasn't a reason to blush at that, but John's cheeks heated. "Yes, all
right. I understand."
Holmes' shoulders expanded on a deep breath, and he turned to face John, chin
tipped up defiantly as if he expected John to dispute what he was about to say
regardless. "This morning, I stumbled across a housemaid crying outside the
laundry rooms."
"What on earth were you doing outside the laundry rooms?"
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Irrelevant, Watson. Do try to focus. As I was saying,
I found the girl in quite a state, and when I inquired as to the case of her
distress, she informed me that her dear friend Elsa—also a housemaid—had been
missing since yesterday evening. No one has laid eyes on her since, and she
told me that she fears the worst."
"Really, Holmes, you are putting far too much stock in a melodramatic
housemaid's tale." John smiled ruefully. "My guess is that they had a spat and
Elsa decided to hide a way for a bit."
"You might be correct, if Elsa were not having an illicit affair with Mr.
Carrington."
John blinked, his mouth falling open. "The girl told you this?"
"Yes, and according to her account, the affair has been on going for the better
part of a year."
"But..." John shook his head. "You've no proof besides her word. And what's
more, how does an illicit affair equal murder?"
"Watson, stop being so bloody naïve for a moment!" Holmes threw his hands in
the air as he continued his nervous pacing. "Carrington is more than twice
Elsa's age, and dabbling with the help certainly isn't gentlemanly behaviour.
What's more, an affair can have unwanted side effects—namely, a pregnancy."
John was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. "Are you honestly suggesting
that Carrington murdered a housemaid because she was with child? His child?"
"Elsa thought herself two months pregnant."
"That proves the affair, perhaps, but not murder!"
Holmes stopped abruptly and gave him a hard stare. "The evidence points to foul
play," he replied coldly. "I'm merely putting the pieces into place."
"You're spouting off conjecture!" John cried. "This isn't one of your
experiments. You cannot just accuse headmasters of violent crimes, Holmes!
Especially if they're based on nothing more than a girl's hysterical
ramblings!"
Holmes squared his shoulders. "Then I shall have to investigate to acquire
proof."
John huffed loudly. "And how do you plan to do that?"
"I haven't devised a plan as of yet." He paused and glanced away. "Hence my
desire to wire Mycroft."
It was utter insanity. John's rational side told him he could not in good
conscience let Holmes conduct an investigation of a respected headmaster, that
he was duty-bound to put a stop to it immediately.
But his other side, the impulsive, reckless side, told him to listen to Holmes.
"If you were to formulate a plan," John asked carefully. "What would it
entail?"
Holmes shrugged, one hand tugging absently at his fringe whilst the other dug
another cigarette from his blazer pocket. "I suppose I'd want to search
Carrington's rooms for clues." He smirked as he stuck a cigarette into his
mouth. "But I fear that might be a bit ambitious."
John swallowed, anticipation thudding faster in his veins. "Not if you know a
prefect who has access to the right keys," he replied softly.
Holmes went very still, lifting his eyes to meet John's. He took the cigarette
from his mouth, and his expression turned open and vulnerable.
"I...I cannot ask you to—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering." John felt an ache down to his fingertips,
over every inch of his skin. It was an ache he'd grown accustomed to.
"Watson—"
"Damn it, I want to help you, all right?" He didn't mean to raise his voice,
but it was difficult to keep his composure when Holmes was looking at him as
if—as if he'd offered him a great gift.
"All right," Holmes finally whispered, and then he smiled at John, a shy,
endearing smile, and suddenly John had to put his hands on Holmes' body.
Holmes gasped, immediately tugging at John's clothes as well, and it was no
time at all before they were both shirtless, their hands tracing quick paths
across each other's skin. John tore open Holmes' flies and palmed his cock,
wanting desperately to drop to his knees and take Holmes in his mouth, but
Holmes was a step ahead of him. He gripped John tightly, thumb slipping over
the slick tip of him, and John could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, as
they thrust into each other's fists. He could not get enough of the sight of
Holmes' thick, flushed prick in his hand, nor could he look away from his own
length pushing through the tight circle of Holmes' fingers. Their hips
stuttered, causing their pricks to bump together, and Holmes moaned and
clutched John's shoulder for balance.
Something about that touch made a sharp possessiveness flare inside John. He
tore his gaze from their hands and looked up at Holmes, took in his scarlet
blush, his tightly closed eyes, his parted lips.
He was beautiful, and John couldn't stop himself from leaning down to press his
mouth to Holmes' neck, the very tip of his tongue flicking against the hot skin
as his hand splayed over Holmes' chest.
Holmes made a sound that was an odd cross between a gasp and a moan, and John
felt liquid heat spread over his hand. It was enough to shock him into coming
as well, and he let his mouth trail over the line of Holmes' jaw as he shivered
through his climax. It was the closest he'd come to kissing Holmes, and John
wasn't sure when he would get the chance again.
 
                                       ~
 
Mr. Carrington was the head of Haverford House. John liked him well enough,
although he rarely interacted with the man outside of his weekly check-ins.
Carrington tended to keep to himself, as was the want of many headmasters at
Leighton. But John hardly thought it possible that the quiet, balding man was
be capable of murder.
And yet he found himself going over the details of Holmes' theory and trying to
remember any strange behaviour from Carrington within the past few days. The
only thing out of the ordinary he could recall was Carrington's absence from
the refectory during dinner two nights ago; the headmaster normally presided
over the masters' table, but John was fairly certain he had not been present on
the night in question.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he startled when a foot nudged against his
own and a voice said quietly, "Watson?"
John looked up from his Latin book, of which he'd read not a word. He was
sitting against one of the large trees in the quad, the early spring air soft
and inviting. Holmes was standing over him, smiling crookedly.
"You've lost your blazer," he said, nodding his head at John's rolled up
shirtsleeves and open collar.
"I'm allowed to lose it from time to time." It felt a little strange, having
Holmes speak to him so casually in public, but also exhilarating. He had to
bite his lip to keep from grinning up at Holmes like an idiot. He shaded his
eyes with his hand and pretended he was squinting into the bright sunlight.
Holmes fidgeted with his tie, and John wondered if he was anxious for a smoke.
"I was, ah, hoping I could speak to you for a moment, if you're not terribly
busy."
John shrugged and set his book aside. "I suppose I could take a break," he said
blithely, ignoring the eager pounding of his heart. He folded his legs
underneath him as Holmes knelt before him in the grass.
"I spoke to every housemaid at Leighton," Holmes said in a hushed voice, and
leaned in close, opening his little black notebook. John reminded himself that
it was only to keep their conversation private, but he was momentarily
distracted by the way Holmes licked over his lower lip as he flipped through
pages of notes.
"Did you skip your lessons?"
"Your concern is duly noted, and it was only Biology. However, what is
important is that, according to the girls who work in Haverford, Carrington and
Elsa had a rather ugly disagreement the night of Elsa's disappearance.
Apparently they could be heard shouting at one another for quite some time."
His eyes grew wide as he spoke, and there was a giddy glint in his eyes the
likes of which John had never seen.
"Did anyone see Elsa leave Carrington's rooms?"
"That's just it, Watson—no one saw her leave. And in the morning, when the
girls came to change the linens, the rooms were empty."
John sighed and tipped his head back against the tree trunk. "This still proves
nothing, Holmes."
"It will prove everything once we get into Carrington's rooms."
He sat up straighter. "We?" John asked quietly.
Holmes sniffed, scribbling something in his notebook. "If you're still willing
to accompany me," he added without glancing up. "Although I'll understand
completely if the prospect of breaking into the headmaster's rooms with a
stolen key is too risky for someone with your impeccable record."
John didn't know what pleased him more—the fact that he'd earned Holmes' trust
or the compliment. "Of course I'll accompany you."
The tops of Holmes' ears went slightly pink, and John felt strangely satisfied.
"Very well. The sooner we move on this, the better. Tonight would be ideal."
John nodded. "Perhaps during supper? Carrington should be away from his rooms
for at least an hour."
"Splendid. We'll meet under the clock in the common room once everyone has gone
for dinner." Holmes snapped his notebook closed and jumped to his feet. Then he
bowed his head a bit awkwardly, smiling his lopsided grin. "Enjoy your
afternoon, Watson."
He wanted Holmes to stay, even if they did nothing but read together in
silence. There was something about having Holmes' undivided attention during
the light of day, and John wanted to hold on to it for a bit longer.
But Holmes was already backing away, the spring breeze whipping playfully at
his hair. John sighed, called out, "Do be careful, Holmes."
Holmes smile went a little wider. "Again, your concern is duly noted, my
dearest prefect."
John rolled his eyes and did not smile stupidly to himself until Holmes was
well out of sight.
 
                                       ~
 
In all his years at Leighton, John had never once broken the rules so
drastically, let alone broken the law. Had someone informed him a year ago that
he'd be breaking into the headmaster's rooms in an attempt to prove him a
murderer, John would have laughed in their face.
Whilst his duties as prefect did not allow him to have access to Carrington's
private rooms, John knew where the key cupboard was, and how to gain access to
it. John had never before dreamt of abusing his prefect privileges, but here he
was, lurking in the halls, waiting for Carrington to leave for the refectory,
the key pressed deep into his palm. He hadn't seen any sign of Holmes yet, but
John had a feeling he needn't worry.
Like clockwork, Carrington slipped came out of his rooms and fell into step
behind the last of the boys leaving the house for supper. John waited until the
common room door closed firmly behind him before rushing to unlock Carrington's
door as quickly as possible. His heart was in his throat as he fumbled with the
lock, but suddenly a voice said in his ear, "There's no one about, you're
safe."
John gave an involuntary shiver at the feel of Holmes' breath warm against his
neck. "Where have you been?" he hissed as the lock finally gave way. He pushed
the door open and pulled Holmes inside.
"Scouting the halls and common room," Holmes replied casually. He immediately
began to comb every inch of the room, squinting at each piece of furniture like
it held untold secrets.
"And you're sure Haverford is empty save for us?" John asked as he turned the
key and left it in the lock.
"Yes, quite." Holmes glanced at the clock mounted on the wall above him. "You
said Carrington would be gone an hour?"
"More or less. I don't think we should test it, though."
Holmes shook his head. "Indeed. We should split our efforts." He waved his
hand. "Examine the bedroom. Leave no stone unturned."
Six months ago, John would have balked at being ordered about by someone
younger than himself. Now he nodded quickly and did exactly as Holmes asked.
The bedroom was as neat as could be, the bedclothes fresh and turned down, not
a speck of dust in sight. With only a slight pang of guilt, John opened the
drawers of Carrington's chest, the doors of his wardrobe, even the small
compartments of his bedside table. But there was nothing out of the ordinary,
nothing strange at all.
Until John happened to take a closer look at the bed. It had an ornate frame,
with pointed wooden knobs at each corner. There was a faint dark stain along
the top right knob. John traced his fingertips over the slightly sticky smudge;
something wasn't right.
"Holmes," John called, and within seconds he was at John's elbow.
"Did you find something?" he asked, a breathlessness to his voice that hinted
at excitement.
"I..." John motioned to the bed knob. "Does this stain look odd to you? I don't
think it's just the grain of the wood; the texture feels...off."
Holmes caught his lower lip between his teeth as he narrowed his eyes at the
stain in question, tracing his thumb along its edges lightly. He leaned closer,
took several short sniffs, and then to John's horror, he licked it.
"Holmes!"
"Oh my god, Watson." His eyes suddenly went very wide. "Do you know what this
is?"
"Please tell me it's not something poisonous."
Holmes shook his head. "This is blood."
"How can you be so certain?"
He gave John a small smirk. "I know the taste of blood. And, if I'm correct,
this stain is only a few days old. Perhaps someone tried to clean up but missed
this one small spot." Holmes began to pace around the end of the bed, one arm
clasped behind his back, the other scrubbing at his chin.
"There must have been a struggle during that argument," he mumbled quietly in
thought, then added abruptly, "I need you to be Elsa."
John laughed. "Come again?"
Holmes huffed and took John by the arms, manhandling him into position near the
stained bed knob. "You will pretend to be Elsa, and I am Carrington. Now." He
clasped his hands in front of his chest. "We're quarreling due to the
unfortunate fact that you're with child and I have a reputation to uphold."
"Holmes, must I really be the girl in this scenario?"
"Watson, please. I'm trying to concentrate. Now, as I was saying, we are
quarreling and, at some point, you insist that we must be married, so that our
child can be born in wedlock. I will hear none of it, and in a sudden fit of
rage I push you." Holmes put both hands on John's shoulders and pushed him
toward the bed in slow motion. "During the scuffle, your head cracks against
the bed frame, causing you to bleed profusely."
John's head bumps against the bed knob. Even without any force , he could
imagine how a swift shove could cause considerable damage.
"Are you saying this is what killed her?" he asked softly.
Holmes bit his knuckle, eyes narrowed and focused. "He could have slipped her
body out in the middle of the night and no one would be any the wiser. The only
ones who would ever suspect would be the other housemaids. Unless..." He
suddenly rushed to the wardrobe and threw open the doors, rifling frantically
through several linen shirts, blazers, a dressing gown and an overcoat, until
he gave victorious yelp.
"Watson!" He held up a single embroidered handkerchief. In the corner were the
initials ES.
"Is that—?"
"Elsa Stanton. This belonged to her. Carrington kept it." Holmes stared at the
delicate thing in his hands as if awestruck, an exuberant flush spreading over
his cheeks. He looked up and met John's eyes, his excitement clear.
"I think I may have proved my theory." His smile was wide enough to crinkle his
eyes at the corners, and his hair had fallen across his forehead, making him
look equal parts youthful and rakish.
This was Holmes in his element, John realised. This was what it was it like to
watch him hunched over a chemistry table, or lost in a violin sonata; in this
moment, Holmes was truly, utterly happy, despite the sinister circumstances
that surrounded them.
John's chest grew very tight, and the air in the room seemed thin. He could not
take his eyes off Holmes, or the slick curve of his lower lip. Blood was
rushing in his ears, like the roar of the ocean just before a storm rolls in
with a vengeance.
Holmes' beautiful, dazzling smile faded somewhat. "Watson? Are you all right?"
He could not speak, could not wet his throat enough to form the words he dare
not say. He knew this was not the time or the place to be having this
realisation, but John could not help himself. He drew an unsteady breath into
his lungs and forced his feet to move in careful steps toward Holmes, until
only a few inches separated them. John watched, entranced, as Holmes tipped his
chin up to keep their gazes level, his eyes wide and almost frightened.
"Watson?" he whispered again, and it was the way Holmes said his name,
tentative and soft, that made John ache with want. He understood the fear in
Holmes' eyes; he felt it in every inch of his body.
In the nearly eighteen years of his life, John had kissed a total of three
people—two girls and a boy, although the boy had been a friend, the kiss
nothing but a lark, the result of a drunken night with his friends on the
football team. He remembered chapped lips and laughter, but no real feelings to
speak of. The girls had been friends of his family, prospects his mother had
deemed worthy of his time. Two consecutive summers of rather awkward courting
and small, careful kisses that were usually over as soon as they began. John
hadn't given kissing much thought since then.
And yet it seemed he had spent weeks, perhaps even months, thinking about
Holmes' mouth, wondering about the sounds he would make, how he would taste. It
wasn't enough anymore just to know the feel of his skin, or the solid lines of
his muscles. John wanted more.
His arm felt heavy when he raised his hand to skim his fingers over Holmes'
cheek. Holmes eyelids fluttered as John traced over his soft evening stubble.
Ever so carefully, he cupped the edge of Holmes' jaw and then leaned forward,
pressing his mouth to Holmes'.
The kiss was just shy of chaste. Holmes went utterly still, his body tense and
unmoving. His lips were parted, but he didn't respond at all, and when John
opened his eyes he saw that Holmes' eyes were tightly shut.
He's never done this before, John thought, letting his hand slide back to
cradle the back of Holmes' head. He nudged the tip of his nose gently against
Holmes', a silent please let me, his heart lodged firmly in his throat as he
slowly brought their mouths together once more.
Holmes gave a muted whimper, but he remained stock-still, hands at his side.
John felt a momentary sickening swoop in his stomach. His heart sunk and he
began to pull away, I'm sorry on the tip of his tongue.
Only Holmes clutched at John's arms fiercely and tugged him back, whispering
something that sounded very much like John and opening his mouth to John's
kiss. Their lips slid against each other, parted enough for John to feel the
heat of Holmes' breath, and he sighed in relief when Holmes pressed closer.
He refused to rush, feeling overwhelmingly protective as he gently kissed over
Holmes' lower lip, but he had not counted on Holmes following his lead so
closely. Every press of his lips, every careful slide of his tongue, Holmes
mimicked the motions, until they were gasping for air but unwilling to part.
Holmes was shaking under John's hands, and he kissed with a ferocious
determination that made John moan and sink his teeth into Holmes' lower lip,
tightening his fingers in Holmes' hair, dizzy with want. Holmes fisted his
hands in John's shirt and traced the inside of John's mouth with his tongue,
groaning roughly as John tasted him in return.
What Holmes lacked in finesse, he more than made up for with enthusiasm. At one
point, he went up on tiptoe to slant his mouth over John's just so, deepening
the kiss until it was messy and breathless. Holmes' hips were hard against his,
and John knew he should put a stop to it before Carrington returned, but he
could not bring himself to break away. This was nothing like the simple kisses
he'd experienced in the past—he was losing himself in Holmes and never wanted
to be found.
"We—we should go, Holmes," he gasped into Holmes' mouth. "Carrington, he'll—"
"I know." Holmes nipped at John's lip, rolling his hips up in a way that nearly
made John fall apart completely. He wanted to strip the clothes from Holmes'
body and feel his hardness against his own. He wanted to know what it was like
to swallow the sounds Holmes' made when he came.
"This is...dangerous...we...have...to..." John's words faded into a groan as
Holmes thrust his tongue in his mouth.
"Just...just a little longer...please." Holmes pressed himself flush against
John, hands grasping John's shirt collar. John could only cling back and oblige
him.
When he felt the first hints of orgasm, John moaned and tore himself away from
the kiss, staggering back toward the bed. He was achingly hard, blood throbbing
in his veins, but he had to think. He absently scrubbed the back of his hand
over his bruised mouth, only to catch a momentary flash of hurt in Holmes' dark
eyes.
"Oh god, no, please do not think—" John shook his head and reached out to touch
Holmes' cheek. "We have to get out of here, Holmes. And I—I cannot think
straight with your taste in my mouth."
Holmes' flush deepened and he licked over his swollen lower lip. John gritted
his teeth and looked away.
"Come on, we should, ah. Return to my study."
Holmes exhaled loudly, half sigh, half groan. "Yes, quite right. We've found
everything we need here."
In more ways than one, John thought as he took a few calming breaths and tried
to will away his erection.
He didn't touch Holmes when they left Carrington's rooms, nor did he meet
Holmes' eyes when he locked the door behind them. The halls of Haverford were
still quiet and empty, and although a pang of hunger reminded John they were
missing supper, he didn't turn toward the refectory.
Instead, he raced through the halls to his study, Holmes close at his heels.
 
                                       ~
 
They reached for one another the moment the study door closed, kissing
frantically as they shed their clothes. Everything felt new and different, as
if John had never touched Holmes' skin before. He didn't open his eyes; it was
intoxicating just to feel the sounds Holmes made vibrating on his lips, taste
them on his tongue. He curled his hand around Holmes' prick and reveled in the
way Holmes' voice broke on a long, desperate moan as John sucked sharply at his
lip in tandem with the movement of his fingers.
They fell onto the carpet in front of the fireplace, Holmes flat on his back
and John braced above him, shirts flung away and trousers tangled about their
legs. John pressed Holmes' wrists tightly to the floor above his head, his
other hand fumbling between their bodies. He groaned into Holmes' mouth as the
slick heads of their pricks rubbed together, but he didn't have the
coordination to stroke them both in his hand, not when Holmes was arching
underneath him and locking their fingers together.
"God, John, please," Holmes gasped. In the end they came from the wet friction
of their cocks pressed length to length, not kissing so much as sharing air as
they shuddered.
When he could breathe again, John started to push himself up, but Holmes
groaned in protest and tugged him back down. He kissed the corner of John's
mouth, nuzzling his cheek as his hands trailed lazily over John's chest and
shoulders.
John didn't know how long they stayed there, trading kisses until the room grew
dark. Eventually he got up and lit the candles.
"I don't suppose your tobacco tin is hiding in here somewhere?" he asked,
dropping down beside Holmes once the room was bathed in soft light.
Holmes raised himself onto his elbows and smirked at John, his messy hair
clinging to his long lashes. "You are very demanding, you know."
"Is that a no?"
"I haven't decided." Then cupped his hand around John's neck and pulled him
into a slow kiss. John gasped softly, and he had completely forgotten his
previous question when Holmes eventually murmured against his mouth, "Look on
your desk, unless you were greedy and smoked it all yesterday."
John grinned and scraped his teeth playfully over Holmes' chin before
scrambling to his feet.
 
                                       ~
 
Although the evidence they'd found in Carrington's rooms was fairly damning,
Holmes was not certain it would be enough to convict him. And he had no idea
how to go about it. He couldn't just march into Mr. Hollister's office with
Watson at his side and demand Carrington be brought to justice.
Watson at his side... Holmes' thoughts began to stray a bit as he attempted to
focus on the notes he'd written up about Elsa's disappearance (a far better use
of time than focusing on Mr. Shingler's lectures). If he closed his eyes, he
could still hear Watson's laughter from the night before as Holmes had wrestled
him to the floor. Watson had claimed the rest of the tobacco for himself,
announcing that it was "property of the Watson estate." Holmes had responded by
tackling him around the legs, toppling him to the rug and straddling him, then
stealing the tin neatly from his grasp.
Watson had just laughed and kissed him. "Well done, old boy."
Holmes sighed. He had not expected to enjoy kissing so much, and yet he
suddenly craved it like nothing else. It was a slow, hot itch beneath his skin
that would not be satisfied until he had Watson's lips against his. He wanted
to bite at Watson's mouth and make him moan again, breathless and low, kiss him
deep enough to make Watson shiver and pull Holmes tight against him.
He was certain he'd never tire of it.
By the time his biology lesson was over, Holmes was no further along with his
plans for dealing with Carrington's crime, but he had developed quite a blush.
He discreetly shifted his trousers and recited elements in his head as he
headed out into the bright sunlight. He had nearly succeeded in calming himself
when someone grabbed his elbow and pulled him into a dark alcove.
Holmes' back hit the stone wall, making him gasp, his mouth open in protest.
But then he found himself staring up into Watson's blue eyes, and suddenly he
wanted to use his mouth for other purposes.
"Sorry," Watson murmured, his fingers ghosting over the side of Holmes' head
where he'd knocked it against the wall. "I was trying to be discreet."
"You're forgiven," Holmes breathed, wondering if Watson's lips had always
looked so soft and red.
As if reading his mind, Watson's teeth caught the corner of his mouth.
"Carrington's asked to meet me this afternoon," he whispered.
Holmes saw the anxious flicker in Watson's eyes, and he berated himself
severely for having not noticed it sooner. "It could be nothing, just the usual
status report for the week." Since they were alone in a quiet, dark corner,
Holmes gave in to the urge to skim his fingers over the front of Watson's tie.
Watson shook his head, watching Holmes' fingers trace over the silk. "No, he
never calls on me in the middle of the week. I think someone noticed that the
key to his rooms is still missing from the key cupboard."
Holmes' eyes went wide. "You haven't returned it?"
"I have been, perhaps, a bit too distracted as of late," Watson replied, giving
Holmes a sheepish smile. "I had planned to return this evening after I had
finished my rounds."
His heart was beating too quickly, and Holmes suddenly realised he was afraid
for Watson. "You're not going alone," he said fiercely, circling his hand
around Watson's wrist and squeezing tightly.
"Holmes, I'll be fine. I'll think of an excuse, trust me."
"No. I'm the one that got you into this predicament, I will not stand by
and..." He swallowed, pressed his thumb against Watson's pulse point. "I'm
going with you."
Watson sighed and gently cupped Holmes' cheek, much like he had touched him in
Carrington's bedroom. He leaned in and kissed Holmes lightly.
"You shouldn't," he said, "but I know I cannot stop you."
Holmes had spent far too much time imagining another kiss to let this one stay
so chaste. He parted his mouth and licked over Watson's lower lip, sucking
briefly at the slick skin until Watson moaned and pressed him into the wall,
hands sliding beneath Holmes' blazer to palm his waist.
"Bloody insane," Watson growled into the kiss, and Holmes laughed breathlessly.
 
                                       ~
 
It was not Mr. Carrington's office to which Watson had been called but
Hollister's. Holmes stood beside Watson before Hollister's desk, hating the
sinking feel of dread he remembered from the last time he'd sat in this very
room. It felt like a hundred years had passed since that moment, and while he
no longer despised the thought of being in Watson's company, quite the opposite
actually, he could not say the same for Hollister.
"Mr. Watson, I fail to see why Mr. Holmes is here," Hollister said. "He was not
invited to this meeting."
Watson squared his shoulders. "I would like him to be present, sir," he replied
firmly, confidently, and a sharp rush of affection swelled in Holmes' chest.
Hollister sighed. "Very well. I assume you're aware of why you were called
here?"
"Not entirely, sir."
"The key to Mr. Carrington's rooms is missing. Being the Haverford prefect, you
are the only person who may have gained access to it without arising
suspicion."
"And someone went through my wardrobe," Carrington added sharply. He stood
behind Hollister's chair, eyes narrowed accusingly at Watson. Holmes wanted to
punch him squarely in the jaw, but he felt a pang of guilt at having not
covered their tracks better. He remembered stuffing the handkerchief back into
a blazer pocket, but he had not taken the time to make sure it was the same
blazer in which he'd found it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes saw Watson shift uncomfortably. He knew it
was not easy for him to lie to superiors. "Could the housemaid have taken it by
accident?" Watson asked, with feigned innocence.
"You know very well they have their own keys," Hollister replied. "Watson, if
there's something you need to confess, now would be the perfect opportunity."
Neither Watson nor Holmes said a word. Holmes could hear Watson breathing
beside him, quick and anxious, and he longed to reach out and tangle their
fingers together. It was Holmes' fault for not having better foresight; he
wouldn't let Watson take the blame.
"If I may, sir," Holmes began, clearing his throat, but suddenly Carrington
blurted out, "Really, Watson, I am very disappointed in you! If it were not so
close to the end of term, I would have you suspended! Breaking into my rooms,
going through my things, and then lying about it—you should be ashamed!"
"I should be ashamed?" Watson repeated, his voice rising in anger. "I think you
have much greater cause for remorse!"
Everyone in the room, including Holmes, gaped at Watson in horror.
"I beg your pardon?" Hollister asked in a deadly quiet tone. Carrington merely
stood back with his mouth hanging open.
"Watson," Holmes hissed, pulling at the sleeve of Watson's blazer, but Watson
jerked away and stormed toward Hollister's desk, pointing an accusatory finger
at Carrington.
"You murdered a housemaid and thought you could get away with it!" Watson
cried. "But we found the blood on your bed post, sir, as well as Elsa's
handkerchief."
Holmes's gaze flicked back and forth between Hollister and Carrington, gauging
their reactions. Hollister rose to his feet, his face was bright red with fury,
but Carrington paled, his expression stricken.
"Mr. Watson, you will apologise this instant," Hollister said, "or I will
suspend you, end of term or not."
"I won't," Watson shot back, hands planted firmly on Hollister's desk, brave
and fierce. Holmes was speechless. "He needs to pay for what he's done."
"Why would you possibly think I—I murdered Elsa?" Carrington asked. He said her
name carefully, almost reverently.
Watson glared at him. "Because she was pregnant with your child."
Carrington blanched visibly and looked away.
Holmes touched Watson's shoulder. "Watson—"
"No, Holmes, it needs to be brought into the open. If we don't speak up for
Elsa, no one will."
"He didn't kill her, Watson."
He whirled around and stared at Holmes, cheeks turning scarlet. "What?"
Holmes took a deep breath, then said to Carrington, "You wanted to do the right
thing, but she wanted to be married in front of her family, and you wished to
do it behind closed doors, so you quarreled."
Carrington swallowed but made no reply. Holmes licked his lips and continued.
"You didn't mean to hurt her, but you pushed her too hard, and she stumbled and
hit her head. Your only option was to rush her to a hospital in the middle of
the night."
"Mr. Holmes, I believe that is quite enough," Hollister said through gritted
teeth.
"No, Stephen, it's all right," Carrington said, voice thick. "It's all true."
He looked straight at Holmes. "But she's alive. I would never intentionally
harm her, never." His voice broke and his expression was one of extreme
remorse.
Holmes finally dared to glance at Watson, who was looking at him with a mixture
of awe and disbelief.
Hollister sank back into his chair and sighed deeply. "I don't suppose I need
inform you that this situation requires absolute discretion?"
Watson came out of his daze and shook his head. "No, sir."
"I wish you'd come to me with this at once instead of acting on your own
authority. As it is, I must punish you both. Watson, as you're only a month
from your final exams, I won't suspend you. But as for you, Mr. Holmes, I am
very tempted to put you on a train home."
Holmes' stomach sank, but before he could defend himself, Watson said, "Sir, if
anyone is to be punished, it should be me. I'm a prefect. Holmes was merely
following my example."
Holmes glared at him. Now was not the time for Watson's heroics. "Watson, don't
you dare—"
"I'm quite disappointed in both of you," Hollister replied. "I expected more
from you, Watson."
Watson bowed his head, but he did not apologise.
Carrington sighed again. "Neither of you will be suspended, but you'll both
spend a week helping in the kitchens after mealtimes. And this puts an end to
your tutoring sessions; it's clear you're a bad influence on one another.
You're both dismissed."
"How the devil did you know he was innocent?" Watson asked once they were
outside.
"The moment you accused him of murder, he seemed heartbroken that someone could
imagine such a thing."
"That could have been guilt. Maybe he hadn't come to terms with what he'd
done."
Holmes shook his head, tipping his face up to feel the warm spring sunshine.
"No, it was more than that." He shrugged his shoulders. "It was the way he said
her name."
Watson rounded on him, stopping Holmes in his tracks. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." His heart gave an odd flip. "He said her name with such care, it
was clear he cared about her."
"You could tell he was in love with her?"
Holmes shrugged again, glancing down at the ground. "I don't know for certain
what someone in love sounds like, but yes. I believe he is."
He wasn't prepared for Watson to whisper, "amazing," and slide his knuckles
over Holmes' jaw. Holmes shivered, swallowed a gasp.
"Our sessions are over," he said, taking a step closer to Watson. It was less
than appropriate given that they were standing near the quad, although lessons
were over and the quad was deserted. "You must be relieved."
"Elated," Watson smiled. "But you forgot our week of kitchen duty. Apparently I
can't get rid of you so easily."
"Perhaps you're being doubly punished?"
"It would serve me right, I suppose." Watson's eyes went dark when they dropped
to Holmes' mouth, and Holmes had to curl his hands into fists to keep from
touching him.
"Unfortunately, I left my tobacco tin in your study, along with a few of my
books. I'll come to retrieve them this evening, say seven o'clock?"
Watson nodded, a slow smile curving his lips. "That sounds very reasonable."
 
                                       ~
He didn't mind kitchen duty for a week because Watson was there to keep him
company. But on the third day, Cavanaugh and the other brutish sixth formers
decided to once again mock Holmes in front of the entire school.
"Filth cleaning up filth," Cavanaugh sneered as Holmes scraped food off piles
of dishes. "It's about bloody time they found something fitting for you to do.
The only travesty is that you dragged Watson down with you."
Holmes was about to tell Cavanaugh where he could stick his witty remarks, when
Watson replied hotly, "Shove off, Cav, it's not his fault."
Cavanaugh laughed. "It's all right, Watson, everyone knows you're just being
kind. No one would associate you with this rubbish, anyway."
Holmes had grown so used to the barbs slung at him, he barely registered the
insult. But, to his shock and secret pleasure, Watson took great offence, drew
back his fist and punched Cavanaugh squarely in the chin, sending him reeling
to the floor.
"Who's rubbish now?" Watson spat as Cavanaugh's friends pulled him off the
floor. Holmes could only watch, wide-eyed and speechless, as Cavanaugh glared
back.
"You punch like a cripple," Cavanaugh hissed, and Holmes was a beat too late to
save Watson from the impending retaliation. The punch hit Watson in the
cheekbone, and he would have crumpled had Holmes not caught him by the
shoulders.
"Fuck you," Holmes said in a low, menacing voice, words directed straight at
Cavanaugh and his minions.
Cavanaugh laughed, though his lip was bleeding and already swollen, but the
arrival of Mr. Garringer put an end to the fight. He ordered Watson and
Cavanaugh to the san at once.
"No, I'm fine," Watson insisted, wincing as he pressed the heel of his hand to
his cheek.
"Obviously you're not," Mr. Garringer replied ruefully. "Holmes, make yourself
useful and take him back to Haverford."
Holmes nodded and tried to sling Watson's arm around his shoulders, but Watson
was having none of it. He kept his arms crossed as they made their way back to
Haverford, not saying a word. Holmes could feel the words thank you on his
tongue, but he knew Watson wouldn't want to hear them.
Once they were back in Watson's study, Holmes asked softly, "Do you need
anything?"
Watson stood in front of the window, the back of his hand cradled against the
bruise under his eye. "No, I'll be all right, thank you."
Holmes shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, feeling helpless. The line of
Watson's shoulders was too tense, his stance too formal.
"You know Cavanaugh's an ignorant git, right?" Holmes' heart beat a little
harder. "Your leg is practically perfect, you can't possibly think—"
"I said I'm all right, Holmes. Maybe you should go," Watson whispered without
turning to face him.
Holmes swallowed tightly. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know. I just need to be alone for a while." He glanced over his shoulder at
Holmes and gave him a tiny, aching smile.
The last thing Holmes wanted to do was leave, and he'd never been good at
following Watson's orders. He slipped up behind him and wrapped his arms
carefully around Watson's waist, pressing his face against the back of his
neck.
"You can be alone with me," he whispered.
After a long, silent moment, Watson sighed and relaxed into Holmes' arms.
 
                                       ~
 
The rest of term passed in a blur. Too quickly the spring blossoms gave way to
summer leaves on the trees, and suddenly Holmes realised that the end of term
was a only a week away. Which not only meant the end of his year at Leighton,
but also the end of his time with Watson.
They hadn't discussed what the summer would bring, or what would happen once
Watson left for university. Holmes could barely stand the thought of months
upon months, or more, separating them, but he'd never say such things out loud.
Instead, he acted cavalier, as if it scarcely mattered to him if they were
parted for months on end.
Unfortunately, Watson had developed a knack for reading Holmes.
"What is it?" he asked as he pulled Holmes behind the bicycle shed. It had
become a common place for their brief trysts in between lessons. "You're
ignoring me today, Holmes."
He forced a laugh, leaning his weight against Watson's chest and pressing him
against the rusted tin walls. "I hardly call this ignoring, Watson."
"You know exactly what I mean. You've been far too quiet." He kissed the corner
of Holmes' mouth, fingers tracing idle patterns over the back of Holmes' hand.
"You're afraid of school being over, aren't you?"
"Why on earth would I be—"
"I've told you several times, why won't you listen?" Watson smiled, an air of
exasperated affection in his voice. "You'll have me for the entire summer,
Holmes, I promise."
He let his eyes close when Watson kissed him lazily, stroking his tongue over
Holmes' lower lip. He wanted to believe Watson, but how could he? They were
hardly bound to one another, and Holmes still had another year at Leighton.
He'd lose Watson come autumn.
Holmes swallowed tightly. "I don't want your promise."
Watson cupped the back of his neck. "I don't know what else to give you," he
whispered, making the kiss deeper, more desperate, until Holmes was clinging to
him.
That evening they laid shirtless in front of the fire in the study, Watson's
blanket barely wide enough to cover them both. Watson wouldn't stop playing
with an unruly lock of Holmes' hair, laughing quietly whenever Holmes
halfheartedly batted his hand away.
Holmes caught his wrist. "There is something you can give me."
Watson lifted himself onto his elbow. "Such as?"
"Let me read your journal."
He snorted and rolled his eyes. "I thought you were being serious."
"I am serious." Holmes sat up, blanket pooled at his waist, and gave Watson his
most charming smile. "It doesn't have to be all the stories, just one. Or maybe
two." He leaned close and nipped at Watson's mouth. "Please?"
Watson huffed. "It's only one story," he murmured reluctantly. "And you
absolutely cannot tell a soul."
"You have my word—unless it is so miraculous that I simply can't help wiring
the closest publisher to sing your praises."
"Holmes." Watson was trying to sound put out, but Holmes could hear the
pleasure in his voice as he got to his feet. There was something inherently
graceful about the way Watson moved. He was wearing nothing but his trousers
and braces, and Holmes wanted to memorize the muscles shifting and gliding
beneath his skin, the strong, broad line of his shoulders.
He was still admiring Watson's physique when he tossed the brown leather
journal Holmes had so wondered about over the past several months into Holmes'
lap.
"Be gentle with me," Watson said with a hint of trepidation as he slid back
under the blanket.
Holmes began to read while Watson chewed his thumb beside him. It wasn't what
he'd expected; there was a heroic knight, an evil king, and epic battles. It
was melodramatic, fanciful, and terribly romantic.
"Well?" Watson asked later, after he had fallen asleep and woken to find Holmes
still reading avidly.
Holmes closed the journal. "I would not have taken you for an Arthurian
enthusiast."
Watson twisted his mouth to one side. "I like knights' tales, and just because
there happens to be a sorcerer does not mean—"
Holmes silenced him by kissing him soundly.
"I like it," Holmes whispered. "I was just making an observation."
"You're just bitter that I haven't been writing about you all this time."
Watson grinned against Holmes' lips, pushing him back onto the rug, hands
tracing over his skin.
"Who's to say I'm not the inspiration for Sir Reginald?"
"You don't need stories written about you. You already think too highly of
yourself." Watson trailed his mouth over Holmes' jaw and down his throat,
licking a path down Holmes' sternum to his stomach.
Holmes arched his body, his fingers threading through Watson's short, soft
hair. "I would never...oh...say no to...being...ah...immortalized in your
words, Watson. God." He lifted his head when a rush of heat hit his growing
erection and saw Watson mouthing the front of his trousers, eyes closed, his
expression one of blissful contentment.
It seemed like hours before Watson opened his flies and freed his cock, only to
lick lazily over the head until Holmes gave a very embarrassing high-pitched
whimper.
"Bastard, stop your incessant teasing," Holmes groaned, hips thrusting off the
floor of their own accord.
Watson pulled off and smiled up him, his lips already red and swollen. "Maybe
if you ask nicely."
Holmes was strung too tightly to suffer their banter any longer. "Please,
John," he gasped, and Watson moaned and swallowed him back down.
He came not long after, and he did not mind at all when Watson scrambled up his
body and brought himself off against Holmes' stomach, shaking through his
release. Holmes hooked an arm around Watson's neck and brought their mouths
together, tasting himself on Watson's tongue.
"Thank you," he whispered, although he didn't know what he was thanking Watson
for.
"Of course," Watson panted, and kissed him back.
 
                                       ~
 
A few days later, John found a battered photograph hidden between the pages of
his journal. It showed two naked men in a full Greco-Roman wrestling pose, but
there was nothing lewd at all about the picture. The lines of their bodies
displayed a graceful power and an urgency that caused heat to pool in John's
stomach. He turned the photo over and saw Holmes' familiar scrawl.
My gift to you, it read. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
It wasn't signed, but John didn't care. He thought of Holmes carrying the
picture around with him in secret, stashing it beneath his mattress or between
the pages of his favourite monograph. He remembered Holmes with his classmates,
their jeers about his "disgusting photographs." But Holmes hadn't destroyed it.
John drew his fingertips delicately over the photo's worn edges before slipping
it carefully back into the journal's pages.
 
                                       ~
 
Holmes watched from a distance whilst Hollister took the time to speak with
each of the parents of the Upper Sixth. He stood at the very back of the crowd
of families, holding his breath as Hollister shook Watson's hand and
congratulated him on his final exams.
There was a stern-looking man standing with Watson who very much resembled
him—the broad set of his shoulders, the haughty chin, hair a similar colour of
gold with grey at the temples. Holmes clenched his jaw when the man met
Watson's eyes and did not smile, did not express a single emotion. Watson
ducked his head and looked away.
The man might be Watson's father, but Holmes still entertained thoughts of
pummelling his face. Watson deserved more.
He had no intention of actually speaking to him once the headmaster had shaken
everyone's hand and moved on to speak to other hovering parents, but Holmes
could not avoid being seen by Watson, who called his name as he pushed his way
through the crowd.
"You were watching," Watson said, grinning breathlessly.
"You knew I would," Holmes murmured, wishing he could wrap his arms around him.
He didn't want the happy spark in Watson's eyes to fade once his father looked
at him again.
"Come meet my parents. They've been asking about you—well, my mother has." And
there it was, a quick little flinch.
Holmes had no desire to meet the man who made Watson doubt himself, but he
couldn't refuse. "All right."
Mrs. Watson was a beautiful woman, with brilliant blue eyes, just like her son.
She shook Holmes' hand politely. "John speaks very highly of you."
Holmes blushed, feeling flattered and uneasy. "Thank you," he replied
awkwardly.
Watson's father, however, raised an eyebrow at Holmes. "How old are
you—Sherlock, is it?"
"Sixteen."
"Do you play football?"
"No, Mr. Watson. I think sports are an extraordinary waste of time."
Mr. Watson frowned, grunting under his breath. Holmes was happy to be the
object of his scorn, as long as it was not directed at Watson. "Then how did
you come to be such close friends with my son?"
Holmes tipped his chin up and met the elder Watson's gaze head-on. "I make a
point of befriending people of the highest calibre."
Watson coughed loudly beside him, and out of the corner of his eye Holmes
caught the bright flush in his cheeks and the hint of a smile tugging at his
lips.
His father seemed nonplussed. "I see," he said dismissively.
Holmes' fist twitched. "Could I have a quick word with Watson?" He didn't wait
for permission before pulling Watson toward the large white oak in the quad.
Once they were hidden behind its wide trunk, Holmes cupped Watson's face in his
hands and kissed him, sweet and gentle. Watson gasped and drew back, blinking
in astonishment.
"What was that for?" he whispered, his hands coming to rest on Holmes' chest.
"I...I just..." Holmes stuttered, pressing their foreheads together while he
searched for the words. "I meant every word I said to him. You know that,
right?"
Watson shook his head. "Holmes, what are you saying?"
"You're going to be an incredible doctor, and Leighton will call you its finest
alumni. Your father should be proud to call you his son."
"Holmes—"
"I've got to go pack the rest of my things. My train leaves in a few hours." He
kissed the corner of Watson's mouth and added in a whisper, "I'll be in
Edinburgh in two weeks."
Watson fisted his hands in Holmes' shirt. "Two weeks is...a long time."
"You'll hardly notice." Holmes ignored the sinking feeling in his chest as he
let Watson go. "Go and find your family."
Watson made a soft sound of protest, then kissed Holmes, a hard, possessive
crush of lips that made Holmes hot with need. He hated the people milling
about, hated the bright sunlight beating down on them, hated the thought of
giving up Watson for even a few days. He wanted him all to himself.
Watson finally jogged across the quad without looking back. Holmes was left
standing alone at the tree, fingers pressed to his lips.
Two weeks, he thought.
 
                                       ~
 
John knew the summer would be difficult. The lengthy train journeys separating
them felt longer and more painful every time, but the worst part was that it
all felt like a countdown until John left for university. Once term began, they
wouldn't have the freedom to see each other nearly so often.
His pillows smelled like Holmes. He'd slip into John's room in the middle of
the night during his visits to Edinburgh and they would bring each other off
with their hands, swallowing the rough sounds they made as they pleasured each
other. Holmes would fall asleep against John's chest until the morning light
woke them and he was forced to sneak back down the hall to his own room.
Time seemed to move more quickly in the summer, and eventually John had to
gather his things for university. He tried not to think about the final trip to
the train station with Holmes, what it would mean to say goodbye.
He already had a half-dozen letters written in his head, and all of them began
with I miss you.
 
                                       ~
 

                               ten years later
 
John never thought the sight of London would fill him with dread. He remembered
the city being wondrous, a gleam of endless possibility gilding the streets,
but now he looked upon the rows of buildings and nameless people bustling
around and was reminded of how very alone he was. A solitary hotel room was all
he had to his name, along with the shrapnel in his leg and the ugly scar on his
shoulder.
It seemed as if Fate herself put John in the path of his old friend Stamford,
and he felt vaguely embarrassed by the relief that coursed through him at sight
of a friendly face. It had been ages since John had truly had a friend. The war
had provided him with companionship, but not friendship, not a confidant.
"You look terribly thin," Stamford said over lunch, his voice sympathetic.
"Yes, well." John winced as he shifted his bad leg beneath the table. It didn't
help that the wound was situated in the same spot as his old injury. "A stint
in Afghanistan tends to have that effect on a fellow." He gave Stamford an
abbreviated version of his time in the desert sun, leaving out the details of
the wretched trip home and the subsequent depression and lack of funds.
He did, however, mention that he was looking for someone to share rooms with.
It was a decision John had come to a few days earlier, when it dawned on him
that he could not go on as he was for much longer and still expect to eat. He
despised the thought of relying on others for help, but he was in no position
to be proud. Pride was just another luxury he couldn't afford.
"Funny, you're the second man today to tell me that," Stamford replied.
"Really?" John could not believe he could be so lucky. "Who was the first?"
"A fellow I know who is working in the chemical laboratory at the hospital.
He's in desperate need of someone to share a set of lovely rooms that are
apparently too big for one person."
The mention of a chemical laboratory reminded John of Holmes. He often thought
of Holmes when he was lonely, though the memories were bittersweet, for it had
been many years since John had received any sort of correspondence from Holmes,
and even longer since he had laid eyes on him. He wanted to believe that their
lives had simply diverged—Holmes had left Leighton, John had gone into the
army, and their letters had become more and more sporadic. People drifted
apart, that was life, but it still gave him a pang to think of Holmes moving on
and forgetting all about him.
It was impossible for John to forget Holmes. Not even the men in his regiment,
the ones who had touched his skin and used his body, could make him forget
their awkward fumbling in his dark study.
John cleared his throat. "If he has rooms, then I am just the man for him."
Stamford smiled. "You really should meet this fellow before you make any sort
of commitment, Watson, believe me."
"Why?"
"He's ... rather odd. I've nothing against him, but he does have his
eccentricities. And he's quite enamoured with the sciences—anatomy and
chemistry, mostly, although he's not a doctor."
An irritating blush began creeping up the back of John's neck. God, he sounded
very much like Holmes. "Is he a scientist?"
Stamford shrugged. "He isn't terribly forthcoming, but he can be quite
personable when he chooses."
John felt an irrational affection for this unknown man who sounded so very much
like Holmes. It was terribly rash, but he replied, "I would very much like to
meet this fellow and discuss the possibility of sharing lodgings."
"Very well! I am almost certain he will be at the laboratory—he's usually there
morning until night. We shall stop by after lunch."
John's thoughts strayed once more to Holmes as they journeyed across the city
to the hospital. He knew Holmes had gone up to university after leaving
Leighton, but it was not long after that when his letters began to taper off.
John longed to know if Holmes had found happiness, although he could not bear
the thought of Holmes being in love with another.
Not that Holmes had loved him, but John...well. It had felt like love.
He was only half listening as Stamford continued to ramble about the young
man's excessive eccentricities.
"He has a near insatiable hunger for exact knowledge. He's very thorough in his
research." Stamford pushed open a heavy door that led to a large wing of the
hospital, and John felt a rush of familiarity. He'd walked these halls many
times during his university days. He followed Stamford up the long staircase
that led to the secluded chemical laboratories located at the far end of a dark
hall.
They had only just opened the door beneath the high archway when John heard a
strangely familiar voice exclaim, "I've found it!" Wishful thinking, he scolded
himself.
Beside him, Stamford laughed. "What have you found, my dear fellow?" he asked,
giving John a knowing smile, as if to say, Now you shall see.
John's heart fluttered in anxious anticipation. He squared his shoulders,
trying to appear composed when he felt anything but. He adjusted his grip on
his cane and walked into the lab.
When he looked up, a man was running toward him with a test tube in his hand.
The man was thin yet broad-shouldered, with wild dark hair and wide brown eyes,
an infectious smile. His hands were stained but graceful as a musician's. In
short, he was the most beautiful man John had ever seen in his life.
He was Sherlock Holmes.
John waited, breathless and terrified, for recognition to dawn in Holmes' eyes.
He knew he didn't look the same as he had years ago; he was a broken shell of
the boy Holmes had once known, and he wouldn't be surprised if Holmes did not
recognise him.
But he did not have to wait long.
Holmes came to an abrupt stop in front of them, his gaze fixed firmly on John.
He blinked as if he didn't trust his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak, but
no words came.
John could feel himself begin to shake, and he gripped the head of his cane
tightly.
Stamford frowned in confusion, his eyes shifting back and forth between them.
"I...take it you know Holmes, then?" he asked John.
John watched Holmes' throat bob as he swallowed, the test tube in his hand
forgotten. He cleared his own throat and replied hoarsely, "Yes. We—we were
friends at school—"
"Dear friends," Holmes interrupted, taking a step closer. "The dearest of
friends, actually." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Stamford clapped his hands. "Excellent! Seems it is a reunion day for everyone.
I shall leave you to discuss the matter of sharing lodgings then." He patted
John on the shoulder and bowed his head at Holmes before leaving the
laboratory.
The silence enveloped them both once the door closed behind him. John scarcely
knew what to say, where to begin. His mind was racing so wildy, he could not
think. There was too much space between them, John couldn't stand not being
able to touch Holmes properly, but he refused to assume anything. Holmes may
have been in need of someone to share his lodgings with, but that did not mean
there wasn't some other—dear friend in his life.
"You were in the war," Holmes said, setting the test tube in a rack on the
table behind him.
"I thought you knew. I wrote to you before I left, I thought—"
"I never got your letters. They stopped coming not long after I left Leighton."
Holmes took a careful step toward him, then another.
John shook his head. "No, that's not—I wrote to you every week, I swear, but
you didn't—"
"I did. They were returned to me." He came to a stop inches from John. He still
had to tip up his chin to meet John's eyes.
"Holmes—"
"You nearly died, didn't you?" he whispered, and to John's overwhelming relief,
he skimmed his fingers over John's cheek. "You...you barely came back." He
pulled his hand back suddenly, flustered, but John reached out and clasped it
tightly, bringing it back to rest against his lips. He no longer cared if he
was assuming too much—this was Holmes, and John had feared he'd never see him
again.
"I came back," John murmured against Holmes' knuckles, "but I didn't truly feel
I was home until I saw your face."
Holmes made a ragged sound and stepped closer, until they were chest to chest,
noses brushing, lips just shy of kissing.
"You'll stay this time," Holmes breathed. It wasn't a question.
John closed his eyes, feeling truly happy for the first time in years. "Yes, he
whispered. "I'll stay."
 
~
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