Fic: Roll Away Your Stone (1/5)
Roll Away Your Stone
Holmes/Watson | 40,000 words | NC-17
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.
A boarding school AU written for holmes_big_bang. Many, many thanks to my excellent, exceedingly thorough betas fitofpique and sunsetmog, and to yan_tan_tether and lyo for letting me spam their inboxes on a constant basis. This story got me through some rough moments this past month, and I am very fond of it. Title and lyrics taken lovingly from Mumford & Sons.
**Warning for underage sex**
Extra Media:
Fanmix: The Distance Was Only Physical, My Love by fitofpique
Art: Three Drawings by alex2006band
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 started 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.
~
part II
Holmes/Watson | 40,000 words | NC-17
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.
A boarding school AU written for holmes_big_bang. Many, many thanks to my excellent, exceedingly thorough betas fitofpique and sunsetmog, and to yan_tan_tether and lyo for letting me spam their inboxes on a constant basis. This story got me through some rough moments this past month, and I am very fond of it. Title and lyrics taken lovingly from Mumford & Sons.
**Warning for underage sex**
Extra Media:
Fanmix: The Distance Was Only Physical, My Love by fitofpique
Art: Three Drawings by alex2006band
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 started 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.
~
part II