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Chapter Text

"You okay, Johnny boy?"

"Shut up, Harry!" John snaps at his big sister, who is starting her first term in some uni that John is glad not to hear anything anymore about.

He thought naively that Harry might stay with him in his house through Secondary school (like the good big sister she pretends to be) which she describes in agonising and terrifying detail during their journey, but no, she has to go to uni! Well, she can go to hell for all he cares.

"You don't have to keep saying that—"

"Alright, stop it now you two," their mother pipes in, "John, we understand if you're feeling a little bit nervous—"

"I'm not nervous!" John protests with an obvious lie, "I'm sixteen, practically an adult."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Harry squeals.

"Harry," John growls, "stop it!"

John's dad meanwhile pipes in, "Did you pack your lunch?"

But Harry always, always has to reply, just for the sake of replying. "Yeah, of course, I did it for him," and why does Harry have to reply to everything and since when. "I wouldn't want my baby brother starving during his first day at school!"

"John, you remember your phone number?" Their mum interrupts another screaming row between the two siblings, "I've written it down in your almanac, just in case."

"Yeah, I've got it. Thanks, mum."

The Watson family car parks outside the school building. John gazes at the campus, too long for his father to rouse him from his deep thoughts and nervousness.

"You planning on getting out today, dear?"

John has to admit. He is kinda nervous, maybe on the verge on screaming-out-of-terror nervous.

"Yeah, sorry," he ducks and slips out of the car before his mum cries her eyes out and flings her arms around his neck. He is not five, he is sixteen. Only his dad gets out after him. Perhaps he has told his mum and Harry to stay inside. John feels thankful for that.

"Now John," he looks down at his son with the most tender eyes, too tender for an ex-Lieutenant Commander who had served in Afghanistan. "You don't have to feel very nervous about school," he hears his father present the speech which he had been preparing for a week in his bedroom and in the long hours in the lavatory and shower, "I know you'll make us proud. School's a very regular thing. You make friends, just as you did back there, you fight," he says with a wink, "and then you make amends as you go along, yeah?"

John nods solemnly, trying not to tell him that he has heard that speech over a million times because his father's smile serves to calm him down a bit. Although he is nervous, he really isn't keen on letting that show on his face. He really doesn't want his parents to worry throughout the day.

"Don't get into trouble or fights on the first day itself, save 'em up for later, be nice to everyone and your teachers. You'll need recommendations for uni, right?"

Nod-nod.

"Don't lose your phone, and don't switch it off either. Keep it on silent. I won't text, for sure, but I can't promise about your mum. She's already worried sick. . . but don't let that get to you."

Nod-nod again. Again, he is sixteen, not in prep. And it is just school, with other kids his age. Much less dangerous than Afghanistan and the fear of bombings and kidnappings anytime. He is safe, no need to be nervous. He is a soldier, like his father, and he can deal with everything.

But will other kids like him? Will they include him? And will they make fun of the fact that he likes boys, if that somehow happens to come out? Such thoughts trouble John a little.

"Reach all your classes in time," his father advises him and although John knows it at all, he hears it out for one last time, "and if people tell you that you're a homeschooled jungle freak, don't listen to them."

John manages a terse laugh at that. That really is harsh, and just the inspiration he needs. His father is always like that.

"Okay. You ready?" John's father asks him the question to whose answer he has been religiously practising for the past hour or so.

He dons a ridiculously fake smile, "Think so." His dad quirks a you-sure eyebrow at him.

"I'm alright," smile is replaced with laughter. "Fantastic."

And that eyebrow kept going higher and higher.

"Sorry," he sobers up, "I'll take care."

His dad pats his shoulder, and he starts walking away from his family towards Westhaven High. He tries not to stand out, but when he turns back to see his mum waving furiously at him, and Harry sniggering at him, John feels like a toddler. An utter toddler.

"I'll miss you, Johnny boy," she calls out loud enough for everyone in the world to hear, "Do write to your dear old sister, won't you? And text me at least once an hour!"

Gritting his teeth furiously, John rushes into the building when he realises that people are starting to notice him. He hates being short, but right now it's working to his advantage. John gazes at different groups sitting outside in the school grounds, already split into cliques on the first day itself.

"Hi!" He waves nervously to some of them with the tiny hope that someone might wave back. They simply stare at him weirdly. John keeps walking, feeling incredibly self-conscious even though no one looks at him. He passes a bunch of people getting high behind the tree, a group of metal-heads setting fire to a poster of Justin Bieber and a girl stuffing two large egg sandwiches into her mouth. He stares at her, not noticing as he almost crashes with another boy, knocking him out for a few seconds. Short height. . . not really to his advantage.

When he recovers himself, he extends a friendly hand out to the boy, "Hi! I'm a new student here. My name's John Watson."

"Talk to me again, and I'll kick your ass," is the grumpy reply as the classic hand of friendship in returned as the fist of get-the-fuck-away-from-me. John looks around helplessly, feeling a little embarrassed. He really should have said sorry instead. Thankfully, he finds the form class within five minutes and proceeds to take a seat when a jolly voice arrested him. "Oh no. No, no!"

He spins around to see a robust and handsome guy with a healthy tan and a few premature greys in his hair.

"You really don't want to sit in there."

John looks a little puzzled. Kids in school had reserved places for themselves?

"Why not?"

"Umm. . . because Sally Donovan's new boyfriend's going to sit there?" A tall boy offers, sitting in front of the first one. His hair is of a ginger shade, and his speech sounds permanently deadpanned, disconcertingly so. John turns to his right to see a tall, dark-haired, well-built guy come up and kiss a dark-skinned girl with curly hair.

Well, if face-sucking classifies as kissing. "Right, thanks," says John, feeling a little grossed at the PDA.

"No problem."

He nods gratefully and moves to another bench, a front row seat at which the taller one interrupts again, "Not there either."

"Why?"

"Do you want to carry attendance sheets to the office every day?"

John shakes his head and takes a seat in at the back of the class as soon as those two boys lose interest in him. He checks his schedule for the umpteenth time, just to make sure he's in the right class. He has biology with Ms. Hooper and then Math. That's all he needs to know for the time being.

"Hey everyone," surely that was Ms. Hooper. Nervous, pretty-ish, not exactly the most organized of teachers by the looks of it, "Sorry, I'm late, sorry, sorry! So, how was your sum—" She stops short as a plump man comes strutting into the classroom like a mistimed character in a stage enactment of a Shakespeare play, only to be met by the disinterested gaze of all the students except for that of John's.

"Ms. Hooper," he starts pleasantly. "Is everything alright in here?"

"Yeah," she gives a good-natured nervous laugh. "Top-notch."

"Good."

"Fantastic."

All the other students continue watching the two of them weirdly. John takes this as an opportunity to ask who the man was.

"That's Mr. Stamford, principal," says the boy sitting in the bench in the row next to his, "What are you, new here?"

"Yeah." John smiles, an unspoken invitation to be friends.

"Cool." No more than that. John quirked his eyebrows at that. However was that cool? He turns his attention back to the two teachers.

"So. . . how was your summer?" He asks her tenderly.

"Great, great. . ." she begins extra-enthusiastically, and then her face falls, "I mean—I. . . not so great."

"Anything you'd like to share?"

"Toby died."

"Oh my god!" Stamford holds her hands and pats her sympathetically on her back.

"Who's Toby?" John asks a girl sitting next to him.

"Ms. Hooper's cat. She was head over heels for him. Are you new here?"

John nods. The girl does not say anything further so he just focuses his attention back to the love-dance in front of him.

"Anytime you feel. . . like, you know, having a chat. . . you can just drop by."

"Yes," she composes herself, and clears her throat, as if asking him to get on with it.

"Right, ahem—well, I just wanted to let everybody know that we have a new student joining us. . . He just moved here all the way from Afghanistan." He looks around, as if trying to locate that student, and then smiled sweetly to Sally Donovan's boyfriend, "Welcome!"

Everybody cranes their necks to look at Sally's new and excessively tanned boyfriend, including Sally herself, as if she doesn't know that her boyfriend came from Afghanistan. A beat later, he rouses himself from oblivion, realising that the attention of the whole class is on him.

"Don't look at me! I'm from Edinburgh!"

Mr. Stamford tries to hide his embarrassment as he coughs uncomfortably. "Great. . . erm. . . Oh yeah, his name's John Hamish Watson. Where are you, John?"

"Over here," John sort of waves, smiling nicely at his two teachers. Ms. Hooper beams at him with a friendly welcome smile, and John feels included automatically. But nobody else graces him with even a look, seeing that John is pretty average with nothing out-of-the-ordinary about him.

John's smile drops, he already feels like his first day in secondary school is a disaster, but he does notice that the shorter of the two boys who talked to him earlier is now silently laughing at his unnecessary excitement. He would have understood, had he known that this is the first time John's attending school, let alone secondary school.

Or maybe he's just laughing at 'Hamish', yeah that's more probable. . . 'Damn, mum!' he thinks inwardly, 'Why John HAMISH Watson?'

"Well, welcome John," says Ms. Hooper as Stamford turned back to her, still smiling at her sweetly. She decides to end the trance with a small cough, "And thank you Mr. Stamford."

"Well, thank you too. And. . . if ever you want. . . if you need anything or if you want to talk to somebody. . ."

"Yeah, maybe some other time, when I've got my boyfriend with me."

Mr. Stamford runs his eyes over her and then looks away, "Okay. Good day everyone." Mr. Stamford leaves the class and Ms. Hooper heaves a sigh of relief at not having to file a sexual harassment law suit, even if it's not strictly applicable.

"Okay! Mycroft," she doesn't look up for once from the file flooding with papers she's going through to even see whether Mycroft's present or not, like she assumes that he will be present even if it were a holiday. Mycroft groans inaudibly, like he knows what's coming next.

"Could you please take the attendance? I need to do one or two things. . ."

When the period ends, the two boys from earlier corner John outside the room.

"That's why I thought My, "says the shorter one with a smirk, "I had never seen this one before."

"Seriously?" The boy called 'My' quips, "John Hamish Watson? Higgins would've been better."

John frowns and tries his best placating smile, "Look guys, I really appreciate you talking to me but I have to get to my next class. It. . . erm, starts in two minutes."

"Relax," says the 'My' guy. John feels relieved to hear that someone's name was as pathetic as 'Hamish' was. And then he cowers inwardly at the fact that Hamish is his father's name.

"No one gets to Biology in time," 'My' continues, trying his best to sound polite, "Ms. Hooper's always late. This is Greg," he breaks off into an undertone, "He's too gay to function."

"What?" John splutters as Greg flashes a set of white teeth cheekily. How in the name of all that is holy was he okay with that, he thinks.

"Oh, poor guy," Greg chuckles, "Don't worry. I'll have him killed if it gets out. And same goes to you too."

John smiles at that, liking the fact that he's already being included.

"And I'm Mycroft," says he, shaking his hands with John formally.

"The two most awesome people you'll ever meet!" Greg quips happily.

"Nice to meet you, erm. . .Greg, Mycroft—" John thinks a hundred times before asking them about a classroom, wishing inwardly that they don't think of him as an idiot for not being able to interpret the map properly, "well. . . do you know where this classroom is?"

Greg looks down at John's schedule and nods without passing any judgement on John's apparently poor map-reading skills, "Yeah, you have bio now, yeah? I'm taking some bio too. My has gotta go to. . . "

"Physics," says Mycroft, checking his tubelight-white schedule, "See you later."

"Bye."

"Bye Mycroft."

Greg's more than okay, he's a good guy and actually quite fun and certainly not too gay to function, according to John anyway. He's also into rugby and soccer, and he consistently argues with John over the fact the soccer's the greatest sport in the world whereas John's more of a rugby fellow. John doesn't really mind that, in fact he's glad and moreover, thankful, that he isn't alone in that huge surreal, stressful place.

It seems that the only classes Greg doesn't share with him are Chemistry and French. And as for Mycroft, he doesn't have any classes with Greg at all. So, during French, when John looks at the alien room timidly, Mycroft is there to keep him some company. He goes to him at once, smiling at his new friend.

"Hello," says he politely, peering from the top of his textbook, and that gesture itself makes John feel a little like he mustn't take any liberties with that guy. "How was your day till now?"

"Okay. A little stressful." John waits till Mycroft moves away to make some space for him and then he goes and sits next to him.

"So. . . what happened?" Mycroft sounds a little awkward while trying to make conversation. John doesn't blame him, even he had been awkward. "Why d'you move here from Afghanistan?"

"Dad got retired. My sister had to go to a uni, get some degree."

Mycroft gives him an acknowledging nod, gulping down some bottled water, "I've heard that it's very violent in there. Even schools are, you know. . ."

"Yeah," John smiles, "It is. That's why I was homeschooled."

Mycroft chokes on the water that he had been gulping down his throat, "What?! You've never been to school before?"

"No. My mum taught me most of the stuff—"

"I think you're. . . really lucky."

John raises his eyebrows, trying to dissect all sorts of meanings in Mycroft's words, "Really? Are schools that bad?"

Mycroft only gives him a deadpan smile, "Surely you mean Secondary-school world? You'll see."

John really doesn't like the tone of his words.

When the class ends, Mycroft leads him outside and waits for Greg to come out of German. John checks his schedule again. Health class. Without John's knowledge, Mycroft points to it and nudges his best friend, "Yeah, don't worry John. We'll get you there."

"Yeah, "Greg gives him a wide, trustworthy smile, "Come on, or we'll be late."

"And you don't want to be late for Health class!" Mycroft speaks ominously, "Coach Gregson will play hell."

They successfully make their way through the crowd, and out in the school grounds, with Mycroft leading as usual as Greg calls out from behind, "Watch out, new meat coming through!" Mycroft scoffs at his words, telling him that he's not hip saying all that, and Greg tells him to shut up, telling him not to copy his dialogues and not to say 'hip' because he doesn't sound hip when he says 'hip'.

"Stop saying 'hip'," Mycroft says, and John laughs.

"Get a room guys. . . but where's this health class room, guys?"

"Oh don't worry. Yeah, just right here." Mycroft promptly sits down on the grass. Well on his handkerchief actually, under the comfortable shade of a tree. He pulls John down on the well-kept grass and aims a kick in Greg's direction.

"Yeah, okay I'm sitting. Don't be a cock, My."

"Is it okay?" John looks a little anxious, while trying to comes across as bordering on nonchalant. His mum and dad had told him to reach all his classes in time or else he'd be punished. "I mean, won't we get into some sort of trouble for this?"

"Yeah," Mycroft nods nonchalantly, taking out a university-level calculus textbook, "if you show up late."

"But if you just don't show up at all," says Greg, fishing into his bag for something, "they'll never even notice. Not everyone's like Ms. Hooper. Nobody else bothers with attendance."

"Moreover, you're now our friend, John. Why would we get you into trouble?" Mycroft looks so sincere that John gives up. After all, Mycroft says that they are friends, and John's in no position to pass up friends.

"In case you're wondering what happens in Health class," Greg begins, breaking up a chocolate bar and giving Mycroft the biggest piece, leaving two small bites for John and himself, "They ask you to carry mosquito repellents with yourselves, or else you'll get dengue," he tries a poor imitation of a poltergeist trying to scare off kids, "and die."

"Or 'D-A-N-G-O-O, as Coach Gregson spells it. Always the same thing every time," Mycroft shakes his head, his diet forgotten, "You see, Coach Gregson has spent the last twelve years in Africa, and he's completely forgotten that dengue isn't a thing in Europe. He's lost his sense of civilisation."

John nodded, processing the information. Health class sounds mundane.

"And it's the sort of class you learn not to pay any attention to, so there's no point in attending. . . Anyway, why are you reading uni - level calculus book, My?" says Greg, pointing to the textbook.

"Hell bent on passing IMO this year as well," says Mycroft absentmindedly, turning the pages carefully as if they are lost treasures, "it'll be second year in a row if I get that medal again. Not that they expect calculus, but the answer comes to me easier and faster and then I can always work out some other crackpot solution without wasting my time. . ."

Greg gives John a look that tells him to zone out for sometime if he doesn't understand what Mycroft says.

Greg and Mycroft complement each other. They're complete opposites of each other, and yet they're the best of friends. Well, whoever said that opposites attracted was right after all. Greg loves everything American and greaser, almost like a wannabe, while Mycroft's completely English, with proper hair and button-down tucked-in shirt. Greg's sweet and sort of tame, trying his best to appear cool whereas Mycroft appears bold and dominating, while trying his best to be polite. SO much that when Greg says something that's outrageous by his standards, Mycroft looks at him with surprise as if he had never known him, maybe pass one or two polite comments too. . .

"Okay," Greg speaks with infectious excitement, whereas Mycroft's having none of it as he buries himself into his textbook, keeping an occasional ear on their conversation, "I'm going to mentor you. . . what else is important that I can tell you about? Oh yeah, the cafeteria is terrible, you're gonna have to buy your lunch at the school store. I recommend white cheddar cheezits."

"No worries," says John brightly, "My mum gave me my lunch."

Greg and Mycroft stare at him like he's an alien. John realises that bringing lunch from home is something you're not supposed to do. He makes a mental note to tell his mum about it.

Fortunately, Mycroft breaks the silence when it gets too awkward, "So, why didn't your parents keep. . . I don't know, homeschooling you?"

"They wanted me to get socialized, meet new people."

Mycroft and Greg smirk identically. Greg puts a reassuring arm on John's shoulder. "Oh, don't worry. You'll get socialized all right, a hunk like you. Just give it a month."

"Hunk?" Mycroft repeats, looking almost scandalised, "Hunk?! God, Gregory! I told you," he beckoned to John, "too gay—"

"Yeah whatevs," Greg growls, "But I guarantee you, you'll hit it off with many chicks here."

John doesn't want to tell them that he's not interested in girls at all. He gazes in the direction of the school. Greg and Mycroft follow his gaze.

"Oh for God's sake, is Sebastian Moran wearing his trousers inside out?"

The three break into laughter, "Of course he is," says Mycroft contemptuously. "Now John, whatever you do in school, you must remember that there are always some people who can ruin your life."

"Yeah, and they have a name. The Plastics."

John frowned, "What's Plastics?"

"Teen royalty. Or at least they consider themselves to be royalty."

"They're the most talked about peeps, even on the Westhaven centric page. If this school was the Daily Mail, they would be there on every single page."

"And if we still had nobility. . . which we do, but still, everyone would be worshiping the ground upon which they walk. . . Well, everyone except us."

"That's right." Now Greg actually, completely sounds like the host of an American infomercial. The That's right, you can lose sixty pounds in three days sort of guy.

"And you too, now that you're one of us."

John looks at them hopefully, "I am?"

"Course you are, isn't that true Mycroft?"

"Yes, of course."

John looks at them with amazement. It's like they practice their dialogues to be in sync with each other. "That one over there," Mycroft points discreetly to a tall boy with tanned complexion and slightly weird hair, "is Sebastian Moran He's one of the stupidest people on the earth, and I wish I were exaggerating."

"Mycroft sat next to him in French last year."

"He asked me on which day Tuesday fell on. Goodness!"

Greg winks playfully at John, "My gets really annoyed when stupid people talk to him." John smiles good-naturedly at that, thinking that Mycroft probably did not think of him as an idiot, even if he read uni-level calculus.

"That brunette over there, Irene Adler. She knows everything about everyone. . . "

John glances at her. Her gym clothes consist of the tiniest shorts ever forged by man, and a bandana for a shirt. John frowns, openly pointing at her, "Is that a. . . shirt or a handkerchief?"

"I don't know, John," Mycroft says with a chuckle, "But I do know that she's very rich and an complete S-L-U-T."

"And that phone of hers, there are all sorts of secrets in there."

"And evil takes a human form in Jim Moriarty," Greg points to a dark haired handsome guy,

"They would have been an item, Jim and Irene, but Jim's gay."

John exhales a silent sigh of relief at that. If one of the most popular kids in the school is gay, then other kids would definitely not make fun of him for being gay.

"But people overlook this little fact because he's the leader of The Plastics," Mycroft continues, cherishing the feel of chocolate in his mouth, and all hopes of John not being ridiculed for his sexuality are dashed, "And whatever they do is the new fashion. School follows him like religion. There was this one time he punched a boy for wearing red with green and said, "it's not Christmas, dumbass."

"And that fellow said that it was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him."

"That is so lame," John says , frowning.

"I know," Greg shakes his head sadly, "As for Jim Moriarty, don't be fooled. He'll seem like a good ol' mate like the ones calling you on fishing and hunting trips. And then he'll break you down, and he'll stab you in the back."

"Seriously Greg? Fishing trips? Anyway," he turns to John, "not just that," Mycroft voice becomes a growl, "He's the self-proclaimed king of the school, he is a dictator. And those two, Moran and Adler, they're his minions."

John turns his head back towards Jim Moriarty, instant fascination arising in him.

"Last year, he made Irene's father talk to the Tower of London Security and let him wear the Crown Jewels."

Mycroft and John turn to him with a disbelieving face. "That's impossible."

"Didn't you see the photo?" he pleads.

"It must have been Photoshoped, you idiot! God, I don't know why I stay with you. I'd rather stay with my painful brother."

"Your. . . brother? Oh, you've got a brother as well?" John asks, thinking about Harry and painful siblings. He could relate.

"Oh right. . ." Greg's eyes widen, "We haven't told him the main part yet."

John quirks an eyebrow at him, "Told me. . . what?"

"Yes, I've got a brother," Mycroft begins another ballad, "in a manner of speaking. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And he's one of the biggest reasons Jim Moriarty is on top of the 'food chain'."

"He's Jim's ex-boyfriend. Well, they've been going on-again and off-again and again since the last year."

"Quiet sort of fellow, doesn't really talk much, that is, until you go and talk to him."

"All the girls were smitten with Sherlock when he first arrived, that is, until they found out that he was gay."

"Some of the freshers who don't know about his orientation still fancy him, because he's a looker. But when they go and try to talk to him, they wish they had never known him."

"Gregory, don't talk about my brother like that. Not in front of me at least. You've truly out-gayed yourself."

"Out-gayed?" Greg scoffs, "What sort of English is that, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft makes an irritated face, "Anyway, Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant waste-of-space. But for some reason, girls love that. He does boxing and a little athletics and he's one of the best students in the school."

"I can tell that Sherlock hates it," Greg speaks in a low voice, "all that attention. We have this special thing—"

"Shut it, Greg! Yeah so, it was obvious that Jim had to go out with him."

The bell rings and Greg stands up, helping John to his feet and then extending his hand to Mycroft, only to withdraw it at the last second and let Mycroft fall back on the grass.

"That's one for aiming a kick at me," he laughs merrily as he pulls John away, and then jostles with his best friend. John smiles at them. Suddenly, Mycroft's eyes fall on a bullhorn by the side of the field, "Greg, on your left."

Greg snags the bullhorn as they pass. Right as they get to the door, he turns it on and announces into it, "Irene Adler is a Gucci Hoochie!"

John stares at him in confusion, wondering what Greg means. Mycroft and Greg pull him inside just in time as Irene Adler turns in their direction. Mycroft rolls his eyes, trying not to laugh "You're just so gay to function!"

"What's a Gucci Hoochie?"

"A girl with designer clothes worth 1000 bucks on a body worth 2 bucks," says Greg as Mycroft tries his best not to laugh or even get caught. If John was on the right track of thought, he could see what Mycroft and Greg looked like. They should marry. Totally.

It's all too much for John for the first day. School's not just about books and teachers. It's more about who likes who, or who's going out with who, or whom to say hi to and who to avoid.

But mostly, it's about what Irene Adler or Jim Moriarty wear and what all pets they have.

Jim Moriarty.

John sees a close-up of the dark haired Irish teen outside English class, one bookbag slung over his shoulder which he gives to a tall, well built, bouncer-at-the-club sort of guy to hold for him till he reaches his class and the latter's more than happy to do him that service. Irene's got a black Gucci handbag to go with her outfit, which is more or less like her gym clothes. Jim does look like he might be the kind of person on top of the food-chain, going by the way people look at him when he passes them in corridors. John can actually feel 'royalty' emanate from him as Jim passes him while he remains in a corner, unknown, unnoticed, unpopular. Jim seems like the most decently dressed fellow in the school, apart from Mycroft, of course. John watches the dark haired Irish teen with awe, wondering how someone could manage to be so much on top of the food chain.

Throughout the first day, John keeps running into trouble, sometimes with the teachers, sometimes with discipline matters, because apparently kids aren't allowed food when they are hungry.

"No eating in class!" Their math teacher shouts at him. John watches her with a scared expression on his face.

"But I'm hungry," he protests weakly.

"Well, I am too! But I'm still teaching stupid sods like you, aren't I?"

That's very rude and very unprofessional of her but John doesn't comment. He can feel Irene Adler's curious eyes on him, "But—"

"In that case, finish your lunch outside the class!"

John nods innocently at the scandalized teacher and obediently walks out of the class, finishing his lunch and strolls back into the classroom.

"Where d'you think you're going, young man?"

John could not express how self-conscious he felt when the teacher shrieked at him. He thinks that his best option is to tell the truth.

"To. . . my desk?" he glances at Greg, who's shaking his head as inconspicuously as possible.

"Go out and ask for permission," she snaps.

John looks at the students helplessly, who are all watching him with an amused expression on their faces. He walks out of the class and asks a little louder than necessary, "May I come in, Ms—?"

The Math teacher replies in the same volume in which he had spoken, "No. Stay outside for the rest of your life!"

And some similar anecdotes.

John has never felt so helpless in his life. He really should have been mainstream-schooled a little earlier. No one has ever told him that he has to stay in one place, or that he has to have a 'lavatory pass' to go to the washroom. He's never encountered adults who don't trust him or kids who laugh at his expense or whenever he feels embarrassed. He's never had to worry about anything else than studying, playing and surviving the war. He was thankful for having moved from Afghanistan, but this is worse. The school's like a minefield and the students and teachers ready to explode at the slightest contact. He feels like a victim, right on the first day in this new place called secondary school. He wonders how the rest of the year would go.

John feels like a fool for having thought that war's over. That surviving is over and now it's time to start living. In Secondary-school world, as Mycroft puts it, war is never over.

Chapter Text

When the recess bell rings, John goes and joins Mycroft and Greg and proceeds toward the cafeteria, letting himself be led by them.

"Now," Greg begins in a preaching manner, "where you sit during the lunch is very important because you've got everyone in there."

"You've got freshmen, OTC preps, Asian nerds. . ." Mycroft carries on, digging into his bookbag for another textbook to bury his brains into.

"Cool Asians—" Greg interrupts.

"Art freaks and Pokémon geeks—" Mycroft says, scowling distastefully as Greg shows John that particular table.

"Unfriendly black hotties—"

"Greg, that's racist!" Mycroft chastises, "And also, girls who eat their feelings—"

"Girls who don't eat anything—"

"Then there's burnouts and desperate wannabes—"

"The greatest people you will ever meet—"

"That's us, hello again! And the worst—"

"Beware of The Plastics." They end together, like a crescendo of operatic music coming to an end.

Lunchroom seems like the recreation "rec" room in military barracks John's dad had once told him about. Like Greg says, you have everyone there, all ranks of soldiers mingling together yet separated by an unspoken clique rule.

"All right," John begins carefully, "Um. . . you guys do understand that I'll forget this. . . information by today, don't you?"

"No. God no," Greg shakes his head, "you are not allowed to do that!"

"Not at all," Mycroft agrees, biting absently into a pastry.

"My will be the Student Council President next year. I can tell you—My, stop it," Greg snatches away the pastry that Mycroft is about to bite again into, "you're on a diet!"

"God, Greg, so very gay to function! What are you, my mother?" Mycroft shakes his head and looks at the pastry in Greg's grip longingly, "Anyway, you've been telling every new person we've been meeting about student council—"

"Shut up, My!" Greg claps him on his shoulder as if very proud of him, and then turns to John again, "So, yeah, like I was saying, My's gonna be the Student Council President next year. That's our senior year, by the way, but I guess you know that already."

John smiles politely. Of course he knew.

"It can be Jim as well," Mycroft says challengingly, "People are definitely going to vote for him—"

"Doesn't matter, My. You're the model student. Teachers love you. Jim just isn't president material."

Now John definitely felt out of place. Mycroft and Greg should really get a room. "Err—" he began, "I'll get some porridge for myself. I'll be right back."

They don't pay any attention to him as Greg continues to scold Mycroft on his diet like he was his mum, and Mycroft becomes surprisingly stubborn. John lifts his tray and proceeds to the front of the lunchroom.

"Hi! We're doing a lunchtime survey of new students," John turns around in the direction of the squeak to see a pretty blonde girl with glasses, and with a blank notepad and pen in her hand, "Can you answer a few questions?"

John peeps into the blank notebook. Seems like he was the first one, "Sure, be my guest."

"Name?"

"John. Watson."

"Is your cherry popped?"

His eyes narrow, as he tries to contemplate what she means, "Excuse me, my what?" He can hear sniggers in the background.

"Okay, let's try this again. Would you like us to assign someone to help you pop your cherry?"

And before John can answer that he's allergic to cherries, there comes a soft Irish drawl from behind him, as if right on time, "Is she bothering you?" He turns to find himself eye-to-eye with Jim Moriarty, the one person he's supposed to avoid, according to Mycroft and Greg anyway. Nowhere as soft as his voice seems to make him sound like, with dark and dangerous eyebrows set over a pair of menacing brown eyes, fast on his feet and intimidating even for his short stature. He gives him the sweetest smile in the universe before turning to the blonde girl.

"Oh come on now, Sarah, don't be such a despo that you have to make up a pretend survey to get pretty boys to sleep with you! If he even wanted to, he would already have taken the hint, wouldn't he?"

Sarah cowers at his tone, as if acknowledging his supremacy. John watches the power play carefully before realising what Jim actually means. "Sorry, what?" he's sure that he's misheard Jim.

"Do you want to have sex with her?" He asked him with an uninterested expression on his face, as if the answer should be obvious. He says 'her' like John would be much better off babysitting a dozen newborn babies than sleep with her.

John looks uncomfortable for a moment. He hadn't realised that ''popping one's cherry'' meant that. He tries not to flush with embarrassment about the fact that he had thought that the girl was offering him a cherry dessert. Jim looks upon like him as if he were a complete virgin in such matters, which he obviously was. John didn't want to hurt her feelings. . . but then, "No, thank you."

"See, that's settled. He's clearly not interested in you. Good afternoon, Shania," he says with a wicked smirk.

"Shut up," she hisses through her teeth, and then bites her tongue, clearly horrified that she asked Jim Moriarty to 'shut up'.

"Good comeback," he sneers, "You should do stand-up."

Sarah goes off in another direction, clearly annoyed, and more than that, defeated. In her defence, she wasn't half-bad. But John just isn't interested in women. He starts to walk off in Greg and Mycroft's direction with a vague but polite 'thank you' to Jim and his group sitting in the exact centre of the lunchroom when he's arrested by Jim's cheerful voice.

"Wait. Sit down."

John tries not to frown at them in confusion to which Jim only replied, pushing a chair noisily in his direction with his feet, "Seriously. Sit down."

John obliges at the command, wondering what's so special in him that the most popular boy had made him sit with him. He smiles at the Plastics, not wanting to offend them.

"Why don't I know you?" Jim's tone is patronising, and feigning kindness, a detail John obviously cannot tell, to who Jim comes across as helpful, almost as a saviour from a strange and uncomfortable situation during his first day in the lunchroom. But Mycroft too doesn't come across to him as an idiot, and he's told John to be aware of the tricks that the Plastics could play, so he tries to stay on his guard like his new friends have advised him to.

"I'm new," he swallows and gives Jim a friendly smile, casting a glance at the rest of the Plastics sitting there who're watching him quite intently. The boy who Mycroft had named 'Sebastian Moran' looks like he's trying to figure something out. He turns his attention back to Jim, "I just moved here from Afghanistan."

"Oh," the girl called Irene pipes in. She seems really pretty, "I remember him. Ms. Richard, the math teacher, she turned you out of the class for eating, didn't she?"

"Did she now?" Jim starts laughing, and although it's nice to hear him laughing pleasantly, it somehow sends shivers through John even though it's a normal August afternoon, "Oh my goondess, that is hilarious! You actually ate in her class? Don't tell me it was something sugary!"

John nods nervously, "A small muffin, that's all, why what's wrong?"

All three of them giggle harder, "Nothing. . . except that she's on a no-sugar diet. Oh god, this is better than porn ! You moved here from Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, I used to be home-schooled," John notices how Jim did not bother introducing himself or his friends, as if he were sure that everyone knew about him, which is probably true because a newbie like himself did know about him too.

"What?" It seems like Jim's also the spokesperson of the Plastics.

"It's where you're taught at home—" John begins, thinking that they're unfamiliar to the idea.

"No, I know what being home-schooled means, doofus!"

"So, you've never been to an actual school before?" Irene asks curiously.

John shakes his head, smiling at her. . .

Be nice to everyone. . . his father's voice wafts in.

Well, smiling nicely at her.

"Homeschooled? Really interesting," Jim seems to be speaking to himself as he crosses his arms over his chest and casts an eye over John, as if inspecting him. The gaze feels more like an X-Ray to John, who tries not to shift in his chair uncomfortably. Jim seems to be paying him a lot of attention. A lot. John can only wonder why.

"Thanks."

Irene smiles too, "But you're like, really DDG and, you know, you look like you go to gym all 365 days a year."

Before John can reply, Moran speaks, his eyes bright because he knows that bit of knowledge, "And 366 on a leap year."

"Thank you," although not having understood DDG, he tries not to offend him by smiling weirdly.

"So you agree." Irene looks like she's caught exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Sorry?"

"You think you're DDG?"

"Oh," that's such an awkward moment for him. He doesn't even understand what Irene means, "Um. . ."

"That's such a lovely jumper," Jim starts right on cue to ease the tension. He really has a thing with timing, "Where'd you buy that?"

"Err— my grandma made it for me."

"It is adorable, I must say," he says appraisingly.

"Thanks," John smiles, coming under the spell of Jim's charming persona.

"So sexy."

Jim turns to Irene with a disdainful scowl on his face. "Really, Irene? That's all you could come up with? Sexy? Jumpersare supposed to be adorable. Thank goodness you did not say 'fetch'. It's my thing!"

Irene looks clearly affronted at that.

"Can I ask you a question?" Moran asks. John isn't really sure what's happening because whatever is happening is way too fast and way too weird for his comprehension.

"If it's not about some sex survey, then sure."

"If you're from Afghanistan. . . why are you white?"

"Oh my god, Phil! You can't just ask people why they're white!" Irene rolls her eyes at him dramatically.

Meanwhile, Jim looks at his two best friends, as if conversing via telepathy, "Could you excuse us for a few moments?"

John nods, mouthing 'okay' to them. The group huddles together, as if discussing nuclear policy. John takes his chance and shoots an apologetic look in Greg and Mycroft's direction. They're clearly horrified. He can almost hear a silent duet of 'What are you doing?' from them.

I don't know, he mouths to them, before turning his attention back to Jim and his group. The three of them have sweet grins on their faces. John smiles too, feeling overwhelmed at the abundance of goodness and friendship on the first day. Maybe his first day isn't that bad after all. Maybe school is something to look forward to, after all.

Okay John," Jim starts slowly, "Let me just tell you that we don't do this very often, so this is like massive."

"We," Irene continues, "want to invite you to have lunch with us every day for the rest of the week."

"Oh, I—"John steals an involuntary glance at his friends, who're watching with rapt attention. He suspects that Mycroft is trying to lip-read them or something, "don't know. . ." After all, it's only for a week. "Sure, I guess."

"Charming," Jim beams at him, speaking in the same patronising tone, "See you tomorrow, Johnny! I'm going to make it my personal responsibility that by the end of the year, you're schnuckered in the awesomeness of Westhaven High."

They leave the table, waving at him. John waves back, smiling happily. Jim's so nice, he thinks. He can hear Irene whining after Jim, " 'Schnuckered' is my thing!"

John wonders what 'schnuckered' means. He's never found that word in a dictionary. He hears Jim's trailing voice, "No, it suits me better, it's my thing now."

"What in Jesus' name was that?"

Greg and Mycroft have dragged John over to boys' lavatory just as all the cafeteria had been deserted, and they're conversing in hushed voices before John can realise that they are conversing in hushed voices, keeping eyes out for any sign of the Plastics.

"They invited me over to their table," John says simply, "for lunch." Their eyes grow wide with surprise.

"Really?" Apparently Greg couldn't believe his ears, "I didn't know that they could be interested in another human being."

Mycroft doesn't say anything more than a 'Oh!'. He has a triumphant smile on his face.

"Tell me you said yes."

John looks at him, surprised. "I thought you said that they are. . . I don't know, toxic or something?"

Mycroft suppresses a laugh at that, "Did you say yes?"

"Umm. . . yeah. What is it? Have I done something wrong?" John asks quickly, afraid to have offended his new friends.

Mycroft's hundred watt smile just grows a hundred times brighter, "The best thing in your entire life. Now listen to me very carefully. I think you should do this."

"Do. . . what?"

Greg patted him on his shoulder, following Mycroft's suit, "Nothing much. Just sit with them at lunch—"

"—and tell us everything that Jim Moriarty says. Although, I think he's clever enough to avoid talking about, shall we put it mildly, unpleasant things in front of you—"

"You've gotta win his trust, or at least that of Anderson or Irene Adler's."

"Good thinking, Gregory—"

"Whoa whoa, hold on," John frowns at the espionage mission he's being sent on by his friends on the first day of his school, "I hate to tell you, but Jim seems okay. Nice, actually—"

"James Moriarty is NOT nice! He ruined my life! Are we clear on that?" Greg almost shouts. John looks at him, a bit spooked.

"Let's look at it this way," Mycroft wraps a placating arm around Greg's shoulders as he leads them outside the washroom, "You remember Snow White, John? Right, the evil queen in there, she's evil. But Jim Moriarty is not just evil. He's wicked."

John can't really comprehend the difference. Evil and  wicked. . . they're supposed to be synonyms, right? But he knows better than to argue with Mycroft Holmes, not when he's THE champion in debating and five times consecutive winner of Debating Matters UK.

"Yeah, My's right. He is the male version of a scum-sucking, selfish, back-stabbing bitch."

But John doesn't quite take his words seriously, "Yeah right. I'll meet you in English, Greg. Bye both of you."

"Will you at least sit with them?!"

"What do I even talk about?" John protests, "I have no idea how things are supposed to work here!"

"Paris Fashion week???" Greg suggests, "Jim's into designer clothing and stuff." 'As am I' remained unspoken.

"Dieting and yoga?" Mycroft suggests, quite matter-of-factly, "Irene's worried sick about her weight all the time." And 'As am I' remains unspoken again.

John shrugs his shoulders awkwardly, "Okay. Anyway, I've already said yes, haven't I? Look, I've got Chemistry now. It's not really my forte, so. . . please?"

Mycroft smiles reassuringly and saunters off with Greg out of the lavatory. John watches them with an unsaid apology in his mouth as their paths fork.

Room C is a quick find as John sits down at a nice spot. There's no one familiar in that class, so he just buries his face in his book till the rat-faced professor arrives.

The class is well enough for John. He understands it. He's going to get all his A-levels. Nothing in the chemistry class can mess him up.

And that's when the bomb drops.

Halfway through the class, he hears a curt knock at the door as he works out the products of the Claisen condensation. He looks up like the rest of the class and his heart stops right away as it makes half a beat. John finds it hard to breathe, hard to listen to anything, anything at all. All he can see that there's a boy clad in a simple light blue shirt and trousers standing at the doorstep of his Chemistry classroom. He's so engrossed in him that he even misses his name.

"Ah, Mr. ________, finally graced us with your presence, have you?"

John, unfortunately misses his name as he feels like his body has come in contact with a big yellow school bus.

John had had only two other crushes in his whole life. One's his great cousin's friend, Randy, in Australia. He was very hot, he had dark hair and green eyes, and he was a surfer. It was then that John thought something was wrong with him for liking a boy instead of a girl. The other was a reporter on some German news channel called Erik Hofmannsthal that John had just tripped upon while flicking through channels. Although he never learnt German, he just loved listening to Erik's voice. . .

But this one. . . Holy smokes! John looks away at once as he feels himself hyperventilating at the thought of just being in his line of sight.

"May I come in?" he says in a lazy drawl, like he's just performing a formality. His baritone voice is deep and rich. John conjures up a mental image of slapping himself a few hundred times for becoming so goddamned loopy. He did not even know his name. He had known him, no, only set his eyes upon him for like five seconds.

"No, I'm gonna have to ask you to stay out of the class, Mr. ________. You're twenty minutes late to the class."

John is, once again, too busy to deal with the feeling of not being able to see him for the rest of the class, so much busy that he misses his name again. He could have died of a heart attack when he sees the mischievous smirk across the boy's face. Unfortunately, the smirk is directed at the professor and not at him.

"Really, Mr. Saunders?"

"Wow!" John exclaims to himself, not even realising it. "Did he just answer his teacher back? That was allowed?"

"How was the divorce?" he asks smugly, "And the settlement? The alimony that you're going to pay her for the rest of your life? And she still gets you to keep that waste-of-space snobby boy of yours and to fix the plumb lines around her house just before the school hours? Hmm? Do I hear you saying 'please come in and take a seat in my lousy class', or do I hear myself spilling some more juicy secrets of yours?"

The class bursts into laughter. Well, all of them except for John, who's still busy recovering from his collision with the school bus, and has miraculously survived. Mr. Saunders's face turns red with embarrassment, too red for an adult as he waves the insolent, rude boy towards a general direction of the class.

The boy looks around, surveying the room for the best place, with the best light and ventilation perhaps, because he does look like the sort of guy who might check those things before he settles into a place. John knows that, being a new student, or new "meat" according to Greg, the only place empty is beside himself. As much as he wants that boy to come and sit beside him just so John could find an excuse to talk to him, he really needs to avoid the distraction of a really hot—

Too late. The boy spots the empty seat next to him and promptly sits down next to John.

And all desperate hopes of learning Chemistry are dashed.

He gives John no indication that he has even noticed him or even considered him, except for a second where their eyes had locked earlier. Thankfully, John finds a moment to recover and return to his normal self. The boy beside him simply takes out a notebook with black cover as he mutters to himself all the reactions that are supposedly done, but John doesn't know of them because he's never even heard of them. He takes a fresh page and starts scribbling on it with a pen lying on John's side of the desk. His handwriting is striking, spidery, not very good, but legible and clear, with a gap of exactly one centimetre between the words. John can smell the expensive cologne on him. It makes him aware just how close they are sitting together.

He is flawless.

John suppresses a shiver at that, at the warmth emanating from him and yet the cold disregard of his surroundings or his teacher.

That's when John realises that the boy is using his pen for writing. He checks if there was another in his bag, rather than taking the risk of talking to him and embarrassing himself, or even out of the fear of offending him. . .

Nope. He hates his luck. He really does. His first day had already been bad. And now, he really doesn't want to make a fool of himself by talking to this flawless boy. He clears his throat, forming the words in his head.

"Hmm. . . Aldol, Birch, Cannizzaro, Claisen—" The boy mutters to himself.

"Sorry, but you're penning my use for writing."

The boy turns to him and glowers at him. At least, that's what it would look on any other person. John can finally feel what a piercing gaze is like.

"Sorry what?"

John winces, slapping himself mentally a few hundred times before speaking again. Brilliant, now he's made a complete fool of himself. He just hopes that this boy isn't offended by it, since people in the school take offences to the slightest of the things that John says with good will. "I mean, you're using my pen for writing and it's the only one that I have."

"Oh!" the boy looks at it and keeps it back on John's table to search for another one in his own bag. He didn't have one. John feels a painful and a totally unreasonable pang of guilt at that. After a minute or two, John, unable to contain himself, blurts out, "It's okay, if you want to. . . use my pen—"

A small, half—smile, a departure from his blatant coldness, touches his lips, something that John seems to stare at for more time than what is normal and appropriate, "Okay."

And all his notes are gone for the class.

John tries to make the most of the situation. He stares at the board, trying to at least memorise those reactions. But it is just so hard to think. Especially where there was a criminally handsome boy sitting barely inches from you who had the power to cloud your thoughts. But it's not just the man, it's his aloofness which affects John so much. He's never met anyone like him.

"It's. . . okay. I don't really need—" the boy begins, but John cuts across him.

"No, it's fine!" he smiles at him, trying to come across as friendly, just to cut through that veil of mysterious coldness, "I mean, it's completely okay."

The boy glances up at Mr. Saunders, their chemistry teacher and then back at John, eyeing him sideways. "If you want, I could lend you my notes after the class," he offers.

John looks at the boy's bookbag. Only textbooks, not one notebook except for the one on his desk. He doesn't seem like the type to take notes during class. John's throat has become very dry all of a sudden. His luck is too good.

"Sure, that'd be great. . . no," he tries not to shake his head and look like a dog drying itself after an unhygienic shower as he speaks quickly, covering up for his wrong choice of words, "God, I didn't mean great, I only meant that it's just fine—"

The boy's face softens very little as he nods, "You're new here."

John's heart skips a beat, "You know about me?"

"No. But I saw it. You're uncomfortable here. That, coupled by the visible tan line in your wrist and the Tower of London souvenir in your pencil pouch tells me that you've been abroad. I could have considered that you were on holiday to the tropics, but then why the Tower of London memento? Because you're new to London, obviously. Only tourists and first-timers buy that stuff, and keep it with themselves as well."

John's heart could have skipped all the beats. It's a mystery how he was still alive. "You saw that?"

The boy nods curtly, "It's as clear as a stop sign."

John resumes breathing, his face breaking into a smile that is fifty percent delighted and fifty percent incredulous. "Obvious? It's not obvious. It was brilliant!"

The boy's eyes narrow, as if trying to judge whether John's being sarcastic. Before John can tell him that he isn't, the boy asks, as incredulous as John had felt moments ago, "You think so?"

John takes a deep breath to stabilise himself, "Yes of course. And that divorce thing too. Did you figure that one out similarly too?"

The boy still hasn't recovered from his surprise, perhaps having not been used to it. "Absence of his wedding band. About the boy, that is because when he was shouting at me, I could see his phone ringing and the photo of a person flash on the screen which could only be that of his son. Rat-faced like him. Divorce, and son calling continuously. Conclusion: father got son's custody. And a quick look at his trouser knee told me that he was undertaking plumbing work, something that was done before he came to school. The man has a housekeeper because I can see that in the creases of his trousers starched religiously stiff, straight as a knife’s edge, the housekeeper could have called a plumber. Therefore not at his house. Where else? Ex-wife. And not parents. Otherwise he would have called a plumber for them.What's different in the case of wife? He needs to win her back so that he doesn't have to incur theloss of at least five hundred a month. So, he's playing Mr. Good Husband to her."

John's mouth is hanging open, and his heart is soaring in the air. Suddenly he feels so, so naked, like on display in a museum. If this boy could see that he was new here from his Tower of London memento and his tan, and if he could see that the teacher was divorced, trying to win his wife back only from his phone and trousers, what else could this eccentric boy glean from John? What else has he not told John about? What if he can see that John is gay? What if he can see that John was completely smitten by him? Straight guys aren't particularly happy when they come to know that they are a subject of infatuation for a gay boy. They might beat him up, and although John can stand his ground, he is very averse to throwing even a punch to his razor sharp cheekbones, unless, of course, his anger gets the best of him. . .

"That. . . was amazing!" he finishes, completely overwhelmed by the display of cold, dazzling brilliance. Screw his looks, there's just so much more than that, so much more to the coldness and the arrogance.

Another half-smile adorns the side of the boy's plush lips, "That's not something you get to hear every day."

John looks at him in clear confusion, "You're kidding! No one's told you that it was amazing before?"

He shrugs his shoulders, trying to come across as nonchalant, "I'm used to it anyway." John tries to wonder what he meant by that.

After that, they sit in silence, listening to their teacher. John, with constantly wavering attention and tapping fingers on the desk, and the boy who's currently the centre of his thoughts with arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched to their full length, and a bored expression on his face. John wants to introduce himself, and ask him his name. He puts his pen down, and prepared the words in his head. . . And then, bell rings. The boy  casts a half-glance in John's direction and slips out of there smoothly, becoming the first one to walk out of the classroom and leaving John utterly disappointed. He doesn't even know his name. He looks down at his black leather-bound notebook and remembers that he has to copy the notes down. He turns to that page eagerly. Everything is clear as crystal to him. It's written in precise handwriting and the notes are cold and crisp. But what catches John's attention is the name.

Sherlock Holmes. . .

Sherlock Holmes. Greg and Mycroft's words play in his head.

That's Mycroft's brother. That's Jim Moriarty's ex. . . on-again-and-off-again boyfriend From what John has understood in the lunch, the way he argued with Irene over 'fetch' and 'schnuckered', James Moriarty is possessive. Very possessive.

So. . . ex. . . that's a good thing, isn't it? Being Ex?

Chapter Text

As the bell rings, signalling the end of Biology and the end of school as well, Henry Knight is the first person to walk out of the class. Ms. Hooper's collecting her things clumsily, and Greg's, as usual, mentoring John. The whole class rises noisily and starts to walk out, not even caring to listen to what Ms. Hooper is shouting to them. Henry Knight drops something just as he passes John. It's a packet, with very colourful little pills inside it.

"John!" came Ms. Hooper's voice. He decides that she's a very lovely and a very patient teacher. She's the only one who bothered to learn her students' names. Greg shoots him a questioning look.

"Wait for me outside, please," John says, thinking that Greg would leave him alone in that big school, "I'll be back." Greg gives him a 'no worries' look, "I'll be near the exit with My, okay? You'll find your way, won't you?"

"Yeah, thanks," he smiles gratefully which turns into a snarl as Greg ruffles his hair playfully.

"Yes, Ms. Hooper," he calls, pushing Greg away playfully. As Greg exits, John picks the packet up, thinking it's some candy and goes over to Ms. Hooper, resisting the urge to take one out of it and pop it into his mouth.

"Hey John," Ms. Hooper sits down on her chair behind the desk, stuffing a donut into her mouth, "Want some?" She offers them to him invitingly. John does feel a little hungry, he has to admit.

"Yeah okay, thanks. Er. . . Ms. Hooper," he hands her the packet, "I think Henry Knight dropped these—"

Ms. Hooper takes one look at the pouch. She instantly goes livid and rushes out of the classroom, after Henry.

"Henry!"

John stares after her for a moment, and then not knowing what else to do, he chases her down as well, only to end up in an empty stairwell, where Ms. Hooper has Henry Knight cornered the flight below.

"Henry, you cannot function at school on ecstasy! And that too on the first day! Ever thought about how your mother would feel about this?!"

John's eyes widen as he glances at his fingers, then tries to rub them off on the wall, horrified that he's touched drugs or even the packet that held them for that matter, and even more horrified that he even thought of taking them. He stares at Henry below, who's licking the binding of his textbook. Ms. Hooper snatches it away and Henry looks like he wants to jump off the stairs.

"I didn't take it!" He protests, "I found it at a club!"

"Henry," she shakes her head resignedly, "My brother was an addict. I'm really good at telling when people are high. If you come to my class high again, I will know!"

Henry's eyes roll out of focus as he reaches out to touch Ms. Hooper's auburn hair, "Shhh," he says weirdly, trying to sound reassuring, while John watches the whole episode, "Don't be scared. . ."

"Ew, Henry!" she backs away, "stop touching my hair!"

"Are you gonna turn me in to the principal, Ms. Hooper?" He asks. Ms. Hooper looks sympathetic as she searches his bag for more. She finds three more pouches as Henry flashes a weird grin at her, "Henry, I don't want you to get kicked out of school," she takes her handkerchief out and moistens it with some water, before dabbing his face tenderly with it. "I want you to go to a good university, okay? Promise me you won't get high anymore—"

The rest of the conversation's lost as John finds himself face to face with Principal Stamford, who appears out of nowhere.

"Oh hello, homeschool. Are you wondering where the exit is?"

John looks lost for a moment, torn between giving him an explanation and listening to Ms. Hooper's sermon, "Er, I—"

"Oh, Molly!" Principal Stamford rushes towards her, John forgotten, evidently pleased to find his favourite teacher, and then he scowls slightly at the sight of Henry. Moreover, when he realises that he's high, he starts playing the knight in shining armour.

"Ms. Hooper," he whispers into her ear, a flimsy pretext to get closer, "He's high." Meanwhile, she looks conflicted. She doesn't want Henry to be kicked out of the school, but now Principal Stamford's there in front of them, evidently having recognised the symptoms, she has no choice. She looks up to see John standing there, who now feels that his presence isn't appropriate at all.

"Er. . . Mr. Stamford. I caught Henry here with some ecstasy tablets, but," she becomes passionate here, "Henry is such a good boy! He always answers in my class, and I swear that he must have just found it— you know—how teenage boys are like. . . please don't expel him, he's just a child!"

"Ms. Hooper," Mr. Stamford turns grave, his Principal persona coming through.

"No, please, he's such a good student, Mr. Stamford. For me, please," she pleads, "He promised me that he would never take these things again! I'll talk to his mother about it, get him into a rehab. . ."

Ms. Hooper looks so sincere and so pleading that Mr. Stamford decides to give in. He turns to Henry very sternly while still addressing his words to Ms. Hooper, "Okay, but next time, I won't be excusing Harry's behaviour here."

"Henry," she corrects him, immensely relieved. John smiles to himself. She really is a saint. She's actually risking her career over a student who came to school while he was high.

"Yeah, Henry," he nodded sheepishly, "let me see those pills."

Ms. Hooper acquiesces cheerfully and leads Henry away, motioning to John to follow her. John watches as Mr. Stamford goes to throw the pouch in the trash, and then realising that someone else might find it, he goes to his office and locks the door behind him. John wonders what he was going to do with it.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Ms. Hooper says as they enter her classroom again. She settles down in her chair, continuing to munch on her donuts as if nothing has happened, "Please don't tell anyone about it."

John tries to smile reassuringly, "Don't worry, I won't."

"Thanks. So," she leans forward, clasping her fingers together, and looked up at him expectantly, "How was your first day? It's just that we haven't had a new student here for ages. . . Are you comfortable here? I mean, except for that. . ."

"Yeah, I am. It's okay," he says brightly. Nobody's asked him that, not even cared. He feels slightly good that someone bothers to.

"Are people nice?"

"Erm. . . not really, to be frank."

Her face falls a little, "Did you make some. . . friends?"

Now John feels a little awkward, maybe at his own answer, "Um—yeah. . ."

Ms. Hooper stares at him, confused, but she carries on, "Anyway, I saw your responses during the class. You were homeschooled, right?"

"Yeah, my mum taught me. Biology was always my favourite."

"Sweet," she smiles benevolently, "because I'm going to ask you something here, about an Olympiad. You know what Olympiads are, yeah?"

John merely shakes his head. He used to live in Afghanistan for God's sake! He couldn't be expected to know everything!

"Well, these are the only exams that get you to international levels of competition. I'd like you to try for this."

She draws out an A4 size paper. Written on it is all about the British Biology Olympiad and its details.

"This is an Olympiad exam I should like you to try. Every year, our school has representatives in Mathematics and Physics ones. . . you know the Holmes brothers, don't you? Well, Sherlock," John feels an immeasurable amount of heat travelling up to his cheeks at the mention of his name, "he's really good at Chemistry and I've always requested him to sit for the RSC Chemistry Olympiad, but he just doesn't listen to me. Last year, I filled the forms on his behalf and Mycroft, his brother," she supplies unhelpfully, "faked his signature," she drops her voice as John smiles at the idea and how pissed a boy like Sherlock must have been at that. "Don't tell him that, but he didn't appear on the day of the exam. . . oh, I'm rambling again! So, anyway, these people here suck at bio and you're the best here, so. . . would you like to try?"

John is delighted by the idea. He's pretty good so he could try an attempt a shot at it, "Yeah, sure."

"Great," she claps her hands, "so. . . anytime, anytime at all, you feel like you have some doubts or some difficulties, don't hesitate, just come to me and I'll help you out, okay? Meanwhile, I'm going to tell Henry's mother about all this!"

Thankfully, as John exits the school, he finds Greg and Mycroft waiting for him, albeit fighting.

"My, stop it!" Greg sounds like he's giving him a lecture, "Cigarette is bad for your health."

"I'd like to second that," John says cheerfully as he approaches them, "You shouldn't smoke, Mycroft. It's really bad for you."

Mycroft simply rolls his eyes at both of them, "It keeps me thin."

"You don't get to opt out of your diet, My," Greg snatches the cigarette out of his lips and crushes it under his feet. Mycroft makes a face that suggests that Greg was embarrassing him.

"Oh, sorry mum," Mycroft simpers in reply, "want to cook my breakfast and make my bed too?"

"Shut up, My." Greg Greg rolls his eyes and John laughs. They really should get a room.

"Oops, got to get out of here," is the only indication John gets before Mycroft and Greg slink off to a side from where they're invisible to the main street. It takes John a few moments to realise why.

A convertible's approaching him, with Irene Adler in the driver's seat and Jim beside her and Moran lounging in the backseat like a Sultan. If this were a movie, the director would probably have made this shot in black-and-white and slow-motion as John watches, fascinated, intrigued by the boy who's dubbed as "the Evil Dictator" like he's some sort of modern-era Hitler. John thinks that he should wave as he notices that they're looking in his direction. So he does. But the careful wave is only met by a dainty one by Jim, who looks like he's thinking who John is, although it's really obvious why he's waving at him. Everybody waves at Jim, even if he doesn't bother to wave back. But John doesn't know this and his face falls as they drive past him, wondering about the words Jim had said before he shot out of the lunchroom dramatically. Does he even remember his name? Or is he just his charity case? He doesn't know why it's affecting  him so much. After all, his first friends hate them, and John's not allowed to care for Jim's opinion, right?

John tries to look at the bright side. Maybe now he'll get to get out of this espionage mission easily, now that they don't seem much interested in him. They're just out of sight when he's rejoined by Greg and Mycroft again.

"Lunch tomorrow, yeah?"

John simply heaves a sigh. Maybe not so easily. Maybe the London sun has fried his brain for him to even consider hatching a plan against Jim Moriarty. And then he remembers that the Afghan sun was much more intense.

What the hell is wrong with him?

"What's DDG?" he asks Greg.

"Drop dead gorgeous," he says, biting into a chocolate bar and giving Mycroft the biggest piece again, his diet forgotten, "Why?"

John heaves a defeated exhale, looking sadly at the small piece of milk chocolate Greg offers him.

"You ready?" Mycroft asks John the next day before they're about to march into the lunchroom. John sniggers.

"Like I could say no and get something good out of it!"

Mycroft smirks at him, "Don't be smart, Johnny. I'm the smart one. And there's Greg, late as always." They spot the brown and grey haired teen hurtling towards them, mouthing "Good luck John!"

"What was I going to talk about again?"

"Justin Bieber?" Greg offers, at which Mycroft looks stunned. He actually looks stunned as his mouth falls open. In a cartoon, his lower jaw would have surely have hit the floor, "What's wrong?" he shrugs his shoulders, trying not to sound outrageous, "I like him."

Mycroft heaves an all-suffering sigh, "The rising cost of abortion, maybe? Sebastian Moran might be interested in such things."

John shakes his head, as the bookbag on his right shoulder feels heavier than usual. He's pretty sure that they'd said different things on the previous day, like something about yoga and some fashion thing. Greg and Mycroft sweep past him into the cafeteria. John follows a few minutes later, settling into the table with Jim, Seb and Irene with a hi.

All throughout the lunch, John eats less and listens more to the useless set of rules that mostly Irene and sometimes Seb mention. John suddenly realises that he isn't just going to sit with them for the rest of the week. He's going to have to sit with them for the rest of the year, and probably the year after that, and the year after that too. . . because Irene seems to be completely convinced that John's going to follow those rules. But then, it seems like anyone would readily sell their house to sit with the Plastics, that was, John notes absently, anyone except Mycroft and Greg, who seem to hate Jim truly and unconditionally. He looks around at their table longingly. Greg and some other guys are having a contest to see who could fit more popsicles into their mouth, while Mycroft tries to block out his best friend's activities, concentrating on his plate. It looks fun.

Jim seems detached today, immersed in his phone, and John just can't help his gaze flying back to him, like soft iron being attracted to a magnet. But Jim does remember him, and he let the doubts settle in his mind. As Irene goes on and on, John takes a few scattered moments to let his gaze fly past her as he takes the whole cafeteria in. To his disappointment, Sherlock Holmes isn't there.

Hanging out with the Plastics is like leaving the actual world, and entering anything other than that. In Irene's eyes, it's the you're-not-allowed-to-do-this world, in Seb's eyes it's simply Guy world, and as for Jim, he's such a mystery character that John just can't help but think about him even as he listens to Irene's ranting.

But all of these worlds had one thing in common: they had A LOT of rules.

"You're not allowed to go to the Apple Store because there'll be other nerds there and you can't hang around at Starbucks two days in a row, and you can only go to Subway on Mondays," she explains him religiously and John's on the verge of wondering whether they're going to make him sign an affidavit or something any time soon. "You can come to school by public transport once a week, so I guess. . ." Irene glances at the Oyster card hidden poorly in John's pocket, "you picked today."

John feels a little self-conscious at that. It sounds like he's going to have to ask for a bike or a car from his parents, which his mum and dad are obviously not going to get him.

"Oh," Phil begins, "and you can't invite your boyfriends," at this point, Phil glances at Jim, "or girlfriends to our table. Ever. You're not allowed to like or talk about animes or Star Wars or Star Trek or any star and slash or anything related to books."

That's okay anyway, John thinks. He isn't into astronomy, although he gets the intuition that Star Wars is something entirely apart from astronomy.

"Recently, we voted a lot of movies and television shows a prompt 'no' that the whole school now boycotts, especially the repeat telecasts of 'Friends', 'Doctor Who' and also the Green Fashion Week in Amsterdam and also the Earth Hour during which we convene at my house and switch on all the lights for the hour," Irene continues, shaping her manicured nails into perfect crescent moon ends, "you can find the list outside the student activities committee, but since you're from Afghanistan, you might not need that."

Like, seriously?!

"Also," Jim speaks up, "You're not allowed to say 'telly' for television."

Moreover John isn't allowed to go to a party without telling the rest of their faction, or go for shopping without them (which is okay because he isn't into shopping; he decides to stick with Seb whenever he would be invited for such things). He isn't allowed unimaginative abuse of words, as Jim puts it. He isn't allowed to wear something that Jim or Seb already own. And if any of his clothing suits the other person better, he's supposed to ditch it without asking  why because it's meant to be their thing.

He's also expected not to wear certain colours on certain days. Like, for example, on Fridays, they're not allowed white because they usually stayed out till one on Fridays, and they don't want to look like they were mourning someone's death, and although John wants to point out that people wear black in mourning, he doesn't open his mouth. Thursdays have pink for Irene, which is completely useless for John because he is not a part of the rule, but he has to listen to it nonetheless, because rules are rules.

Lousy idiotic rules.

It's like he's signing a contract and those are the T&Cs.

And he can wear any T-shirt or jeans or jacket, or jumper in his case, only once a week. And then he's not supposed to wear the same set every week. They like variety.

So, if John needs to get on with his espionage plan, he would be needing lots and lots of clothes.

Fortunately, Greg and Mycroft are of almost same physique as him, although Mycroft has a tummy and is over six feet in height. Everything is perfect.

He isn't allowed long hair, because if he keeps long hair, they'll "banish" him to the table where the art geeks sit. He can't have specs, only contacts. And if he decides to get tattoos, it'll be only with their permission and in their presence. John wonders why he would even think of getting a tattoo.

In order to settle the problem of the fourth rule, Irene and Seb actually make John recall every single tee that he has. It turns out that his fashion sense is very different from that of Jim's or Seb's and quite mortifying as well.

"You're so lucky to have us to guide you," Jim remarks lazily, "We're excusing you because you can't really be expected to learn about fashion in the jungles of Afghanistan. Don't worry, Johnny boy, we'll get you some dapper clothes."

John wants to tell him that there aren't that many jungles in Afghanistan, mostly flatlands and desert. He decides against it.

Even as he is slumped backwards in his seat lazily, John can't help but see how the others regard Jim even in his lazy resting posture. If a newbie happens to enter the room, he would think that the Plastics are sort of an outcast, with clear disdain and hatred for the world around them written on their faces, with an extra inch of spacing between their lunch table and the others, than all the others had within themselves.

The newbie might not understand that it is not the spacing of being an outcast, it is the boundary of exclusivity of the Plastics.

But John can see something else too. He can see how there's not a single person whose eyes fall on Jim less than twice, like he's a rockstar. Even if everyone else is absorbed their own banter, a tiny part in the back on their minds is automatically fixed on Jim Moriarty. It's like everyone just knows stuff about him. John has a feeling that if he makes a documentary on Jim Moriarty by carrying a camera around making various people speak into it, he'll be received by a montage of students seriously dying to talk about Jim.

And moreover, Jim seems to regard it all with nonchalance, all that popularity, and it makes him seem all the more awe-inspiring to John.

"And if you break any of these rules, you can't sit with us for lunch. For a whole week," Seb says in a manner that suggests that it can be the possibly worst thing in the world that can happen to somebody.

John simply nods, reaching out for some milk. Irene shoots him a look that says pay attentionto me and our stupid rules and not the important food. John recoils under the ferocity of her glare.

"I mean, not just you. . . anyone of us. For example," Irene continues, "if I was hanging out at McDonald's today and ordering Happy Meal, I'd be sitting over there with the autistic creeps."

John turns around to see the table whom Mycroft had labelled as "burnouts" the previous day.

"Oh, and we always vote before we ask someone to eat lunch with us because you have to be considerate of the rest of the group," she says.

John nods, "Yeah, I saw that."

Irene smiles sweetly. It's actually difficult to tell whether her smile's genuine or fake. Going by their reputation, John settles for the latter.

"So you know. Good. And you have to take our opinions very seriously. Like I said, every time we go out for shopping, we take the rest of the group with us and we vote for which looks the best on you. It's not always that you think that it looks good and it actually looks good."

John nods, wondering if Irene took Jim and Seb to lingerie shopping as well. Could be possible. Anything is possible with the Plastics. Not that it should matter to her. John and Jim are both attracted to men, and Seb is her childhood friend, however perverted, as she informs him. In fact, a guy's opinion would be more unbiased.

Seb is simply nodding excitedly. He looks very happy to have a fourth member in the group. As painfully stupid as he is, Seb is actually nice and very innocent. He wonders how Phil ended up with Jim and Irene, if he is to take Mycroft and Greg's words.

"Same goes for potential boyfriends, or girlfriends in mine, Seb's and your case. Like, you may think you like someone but you could be wrong."

John quirks his eyebrow at that. So Irene is gay. And what does she mean about being wrong about liking someone?

"I really need a tan," Jim whines, "I don't like being so white!"

He pauses and looks in the direction of his food tray. He looks like he was on some sort of diet, with the lack of food, but John ponders otherwise. Jim's not obese. He's the exact opposite of it. He doesn't need a diet. Yes, he's lacking in muscles, but his looks made up for it.

And then, he realises what to do when Jim says such things.

"Oh no, Jim," Irene quips, "You look better without a tan. Everyone knows that, right John?"

John snaps out of his trance, "Oh yes, completely. You're the sort of person who needs to look sophisticated, not rough and hardy!"

Somehow, John's earnest comment seems to please Jim, "Hmm. . . someone's a flatterer. You're so sweet!"

John breathes a sigh of relief internally. He really is getting tired of Jim treating him like his personal pet, and Irene dragging him around like she is a trainer and he a prize horse in a circus.

"So, John. . ." Jim begins, finally deigning to speaking to him after depositing his phone into his pocket, "Any girls that you'd like to hang out with?"

"Err—" he notices that Irene's watching him closely. All of them think that he was straight. Let them think so, and at any rate, he doesn't even know Sherlock Holmes properly enough to want to date him. After all, it's only one day, and going by Jim's possessive nature, John feels that telling them about Sherlock was probably not a good idea, "Yeah—there's this. . ."

Irene looks excited, and as does Seb. They literally pounce on the information, "Who is it?!"

Now John's in a fix. Truth be told, he doesn't know any of the girls' name in Westhaven High, not even the one who had hit on him the previous day (Shania. . . or Sarah. . . or Sandra—something?), or the girl who had tried to flirt with him right on the first day and started touching him on the arm rather too enthusiastically. His mum does occasionally joke that he'll be a real lady killer one day, something John knew will never be possible, but he didn't expect his mum's words to be true. He casts his eyes around in the cafeteria, and finds a lovely red-haired girl. Even if John's gay, he feels that he'll be very honoured if he even gets to talk to her without his meagre attempts being spurned. "That's her," he points to that girl discreetly.

Irene and Seb turn around, and to John's confusion, the two of them look utterly horrified. Jim turns around too, and stifles a laugh, "Good one, John! And since it's about women, I'm out of here! I've got some. . . ahem—thing to catch up with Sebastian."

And with that he promptly takes off, leaving behind a thoroughly shocked Irene Adler and a placating Sebastian Moran, "Oh no, No!" he squeaks.

"What's wrong?" John asks him innocently. Was he not even allowed to lie?

"That's Katie Heron, you can't like Katie Heron!" Seb exclaims.

"Shut up, Phil," Irene snaps, and John tries not to flinch, "It's Kate, not Katie! And she's my ex-girlfriend."

"For a whole year," is all John can make out from what Phil silently mouths to him. It seems like going out with someone for a whole year is a big deal.

"She broke up with me for no reason!"

Seb turns to Irene in clear confusion, "Really?! I thought you dumped her for—"

Irene shakes her head, speaking quickly, "Regardless, ex-girlfriends are just off-limits to friends! And that's not just our rule; it's the rules of the universe!"

John had a lot of friends in Afghanistan. But all of them were too busy trying to survive rather than even think about girlfriends or boyfriends. John curses himself internally. He can't even pick the proper girl to lie about, and now he's at the pinpoint of Irene's (supposed) wrath. Phil looks like he wants him to apologize to Irene. So, after some truly uncomfortable moments and reassuring that John will not hit on Kate or Katie and that he'll forget about it because she's clearly gay, Jim arrives again, "Oh, by the way people, there's going to be a fire drill in, uh. . ." he checks his watch, "two seconds—"

The fire alarm goes off. All the students around them rush outside in panic, leaving John alone with the Plastics in the huge cafeteria, free to do whatever they want to do. Before John can say that they should also go, Jim interrupts smugly, "I told Coach Gregson we had to skip it because Irene might be pregnant, which is, of course, impossible."

Irene looks extremely shocked, "You said that?!" But Jim ignores her. Phil laughs, and then it seems like something has hit him right on the head, "She's not though, right?"

Coach Gregson mans the door and waves at Jim enthusiastically, as if it is the best thing he has done in his life. Jim waves back daintily.

"So adorable, isn't he?"

John smiles to himself. He can see why it was good to have Jim as a friend, now that they have the whole cafeteria to themselves. Irene watches Kate walk away with another girl, as if planning the latter's extinction anytime soon, "No offense but—"

John knows this part. Whenever a girl starts with "no offense" to a person, she's usually about to offend the said person.

"No offense but even if Kate likes women, she won't like you."

"Oh come on, Irene," Jim rolls his eyes, "John is so DDG. He'll get a girl any time, or a boy if he likes. Tell you what, we'll set you up with anyone you like for the weekend, alright?"

John tries not to blush at the compliment, choosing not to comment on it like he had foolishly done the first time, and wondering how long it'll take before the Plastics come to know about the one thing he's not told anyone.

Chapter Text

John scratches the back of his neck with his nails as he bent over his notebook to solve the math problem that has materialised in front of him. He glances up at the horrible math teacher, who seems to have forgotten all about it. His second day at school has been just as hectic as his first, but he is at least more comfortable than the first day, which was an absolute nightmare. That was, at least except for meeting Sherlock Holmes, which had been the highlight of his day.

"Blue jumper," the teacher's voice cracks out like a sharp whip right near his ears and John knows she's calling him because he's the only one wearing a blue jumper in the class, "What did you get for this?"

"Erm. . . a sub n equals n plus one over four," he looks down at his solution and answers calmly. The math teacher who had been very horrible to him during the first day now focuses her eyes on him as she squints, "Very good."

John feels pleased, not out of the satisfaction of giving the right answer, but out of making that teacher's eyes narrow. Greg gives him a discreet thumbs up from across the room. He has insisted on sitting away from him, because John shares this class with Irene Adler, and Greg is completely invested in his ridiculous plan.

The bell rings, and students storm out of the classroom, not bothering to listen to the homework. John notes it down like the sincere student he tries to be. After that, he barges out of the class too, and to his extreme annoyance, he bumps straight into someone, and an armload of books fall on the floor. John lets out a surprised cry and stumbles backwards, dropping his own folders and adding them to the pile.

"Oh jeez, sorry," he apologises clumsily, bending down to pick the books up and hand them to the person who has collided with him.

"Watch where you're going!" the person snaps, not looking up at John as he scurries to retrieve them too.

John goes visibly rigid upon hearing the voice and slowly looks up at Sherlock. He doesn't seem to have realised who has ploughed into him. He studies Sherlock's face and his stern slate coloured eyes. The sharp, pale lines of his face are too keen at this close proximity. He has an arch, shrewd look about him. Meanwhile, Sherlock gathers all his books and straightens up, looking down at John's face challengingly, scrutinising the boy who has run into him.

John flushes and holds out a book, the notebook Sherlock lent him the previous day, "Here. . ."

To his surprise, Sherlock's cheeks colour a little too as he jerks slightly and snatches it away without comment. He shoves the books into his bag and straightens with a small cough.

"Right, thank you."

"Yes, welcome. . ." John speaks without thinking, "No, I mean, thank you, you are the one who gave me the notebook, so I should be thanking you."

John looks beyond Sherlock. There are some freshmen who are gathered behind Sherlock, loads of shy girls behind him, mostly freshmen who probably don't know about his sexual orientation.

"Alright, then. . . welcome," Sherlock says, sounding slightly confused at what was happening.

John snaps out of it and shoves the books into his bag, straightening up with a small cough like Sherlock did. Sherlock stares at his face with a mixture of exasperation and perplexity, and then takes off promptly. John looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and notices that there's something else on the floor too, that Sherlock has left behind by mistake. He picks it up, a transparent Tupperware box.

"Hey, you forgot your. . ." John's eyes squint on the box, stuttering to a stop and wondering what the hell is that. Because inside the plastic container, there are three severed body parts that John only paid attention to when he wrote in a notebook.

". . . your thumbs," he finishes, his voice on the edge of stuttering, because he never really stutters.

Sherlock Holmes stops and turns around, his own eyes lighting up with recognition, "Thank you," he says coolly, and he disappears around the corner, leaving a strange feeling in John's chest. He closes his eyes for a bemused blink, and feels the boy's keen face imprinted into the back of his eyelids. He still feels the warm, urgent brush of his nervous fingers as Sherlock snatches the book away, a little too quickly. John felt hollow and pointless as Sherlock walks away, a bittersweet sensation deep in his gut at having got to talk to him, and even if he already knows the boy's name, he can't even work up the nerve to ask his name. He doesn't know why, but John can already feel those intense grey eyes looking down at him accusingly if he even dares to do that.

Severed thumbs, he thinks, still recovering and grinning inwardly, Christ.

He thinks about the colour, however meagre, that appeared on Sherlock's cheeks. Maybe. . . no. The boy was nigh untouchable, or at least he seems to be so. John turns back around. All the freshmen girls are gone. He can't understand why he feels so bitter when he sees the boy's retreating figure. Asking his name won't make any difference, will it? Not if he already knows.

But the thing was, Sherlock probably doesn't know his name, and John wishes that maybe, maybe. . . if he knows John's name, maybe they'll sit together in chemistry, and then maybe they'll become friends, and then he maybe would manage his phone number, and then text, and then hang out together, maybe Sherlock would show him around London, help him with Chemistry since Ms. Hooper had said that he's really  good at it. . .

Wishful thinking, he sighs.

But there's something, the restlessness, apart from the heat in his cheeks, he feels whenever Sherlock is anywhere near him, like an omnipresent feeling nagging at the back of his mind, like a child consistently pulling at the strings. Sometimes it almost felt like a crush, and sometimes, it was unnamed, bordering on hesitance and reclusion. John's quite outgoing, if not the most, but he never has had a problem with others, with talking or saying hello or conversation in general, not even with Jim who's quite intimidating even by the most objective standards. But the problem is, when his heart spends more time in his mouth than in his chest, it kind of makes talking difficult.

But Sherlock disappears, and the little frail machine in him stops abruptly, and his heart simply slips through his pinhole sized throat back into the hollow which it had previously occupied.

He ducks away, just as he saw Irene walking. He manages an insincere stretch of cheeks at her, at which she daintily waves back. John hopes that his smile looks at least one percent genuine to her, but he knows that that isn't the case.

Yesterday, Sherlock Holmes had been a mystery to him, eccentric and insolent, and today, he's just something else, something entirely different, like a strange overgrown pixie who came tumbling into his life and skipped away when John had wanted to extend his fingers out to it.

He realises that he's looking rather weird standing there alone, with his schedule and his folders almost crumbling under his firm grip that he can't even process. Sherlock. . . the name seems to ring in John's ears. He's seen all sorts of things in Afghanistan, and he can say that Sherlock Holmes is. . . different, for the severe lack of a better word. He looks down into his bookbag, and to his horror, realises that he's given Sherlock the wrong notebook.

Damn, he thinks, and rushed out after in the direction Sherlock had gone. Towards the grounds.

It does not take him long to locate him, because there are some boys already taking his name. John freezes in his steps, as he hears other voices, foreign voices, angry annoyed voices that are traditional "bully voices" in movies.

"Admit it, Sherlock faggot Holmes," says a disgusting, repulsive voice, in a simpering voice, "You want to fuck me."

"You don't even deserve to be fucked by yourself, Jefferson Hope," is Sherlock's cool, disdainful reply, with no trace of fear or anger in his voice.

John sprints around the corner before he even understands where his legs are carrying him. There he is in front of three powerfully built boys, who have cornered a slender Sherlock Holmes who looks like an emaciated skeleton compared to them. Their leader is the same boy who is always more than content to hold things for Jim. They're too engrossed in their fighting to notice John. Sherlock looks convincingly and extremely bored, which is a major achievement because the boys look like they can crack his skull apart.

"You little cunt," the boy called Hope spat, raising his fist and Sherlock continues looking extremely unconcerned. Although John admires inwardly how detached Sherlock looks, his replies are seriously not helping at all, "You—"

"Hey!"

John's voice does nothing to turn their attention towards him.

"HEY!"

This time, Sherlock's neck turns towards where John stands alone, and feeling incredibly foolish at his small and not-at-all daunting stature. And before he knows it, he is between the boy called Jefferson Hope and Sherlock, and he had no idea how he had reached there.

"That's enough," said John in a deadly calm voice. He can feelSherlock's surprised eyes boring into his back, but he doesn't care. A small part of John is a little against getting into a fight, because he thinks that fighting was stupid and a waste of time when one could calm down and just talk it out peacefully, but a major part of him makes his heart bounce up and down his chest like an overgrown rabbit. He can't really label the feeling: it's like how he feels whenever he's afraid of something, or whenever he's running from something dangerous in his pursuit. The last time he felt like this was when he and his dad had gone out for camping and they'd been kidnapped by a guerrilla group. It isn't horror, and yet it is in a way, because it feels similarly, but he isn't afraid. He knows exactly when he is afraid. It's just a very restless, irrational thumping in his heart, "Back off!"

The boy called Hope looks confused. "Who the hell are you?! His new boyfriend?"

John thinks his cheeks are going to colour very brightly, and he's going to lose the confidence he has gained. Turns out, it doesn't, instead his voice remains the same, deadly calm and icy. "I'm warning you, back off!"

"You back off!" he snaps, and the other two boys sneer like the cowardly hyenas in 'The Lion King', "This is between him and me."

Meanwhile, Sherlock pipes in very unhelpfully, "You know you can't take us out, Jeff, not with the little muscle hidden beneath your fatty bulk. He used to be in Afghanistan, and I'm already a distinguished—"

"Fuck you!" Hope snarls and lunges for Sherlock. And before John knows what has happened, his fist collides with Hope's stomach, sending him stumbling backwards. John inhales a sharp breath as Hope stands up, looking gut-punched, literally, and this time, he lunges forward for John, his fist colliding with his jaw painfully. John reels backwards from the pain, grunting, and he wonders why Sherlock isn't helping. But Sherlock's simply too frozen, maybe with shock, maybe with disbelief. The thought that he has managed to surprise Sherlock is more than enough for John, giving him just the strength he needs as he straightens up and this time, punches Jeff Hope right up his nose, and knees him in the groin.

It is a strange sensation which John feels. He has never felt this way, because he has never really gotten into fights, and certainly not for someone else, and certainly not for someone he has known for only two days. His father always thinks that he chickens out of such things because he is the calm, cool-headed child and because he doesn't have itin him, unlike Harry. John makes one brief eye-contact with Sherlock, and Sherlock looks back into his eyes, the look similar to the way John had looked at him when he had first rattled out his deductions, and John wishes desperately he can read what lies behind those unreadable eyes, whether it is awe or nonchalance like Sherlock seems to emit every second of his life. He feels surprisingly light-headed, and suddenly finds that for one moment, he doesn't care. The feeling isn't good, neither is it bad. It is just. . . a twisted mixture of elation, pride, and excitement and unadulterated, 99.99% purity adrenaline.

And then John remembers that Sherlock is a boxer. And he feels like the stupidest human being on the face of the earth. Hope grunts in pain, but he still gets up, not willing to go down, or losing to a new boy half his size. John braces himself for the next blow, not really caring about the ugly bruise in his jaw.

"Stop!" Comes out a soft voice, which is as sharp as a whip. Jim appears out of nowhere, and scowls disdainfully at Jeff Hope. Instantly, Sherlock looks away from John, and they meet, to John's dismay, Jim's eyes as he comes closer and joins Sherlock's side.

"Fighting," he tutts as John watches the power dynamics carefully, Jim's eyes glinting dangerously, the promise of destruction written in them, and for the first time, John knows that Mycroft's words can be right. It's good to have Jim as a friend, and it's equally dangerous too, "So tiresome."

John notices how all colour has left Jeff Hope's face.

"So Sherlock and I break up and you start badgering him with your silly propositions again, hmm?"

John doesn't understand why Jeff did not dare attack Jim, who was not-so-healthy looking, and tear him to pieces whereas Sherlock is a boxer and John himself is a good fighter. He wonders what hold Jim has over him.

"Is that what you call me behind my back too? Faggot? So not cool. . . If you even dare attack Johnny here. . . well, you know," says he with sweetest, cruellest smile.

To John's surprise, Jeff Hope seems like he acquiesces, and his two bully "hyenas" walked away with him. Jim's eyes settle on John's face, not an emotion betraying his inner state. It's like Sherlock takes a hint and stalks away out of there, without a thank you, but John feels that he would not need it. And now that the adrenaline is fading away, he begins to understand what he has come across as, so nosy, as if he has some claim over Sherlock. He does not care if Jim saw how longingly he looks at Sherlock's retreating figure, "John! Let's walk."

Managing a smile, he speaks, "I have class —"

"Aw, am I boring you so much?" he asks with a pout, and John had no option but to walk guiltily for something he hasn't done at all.

"Don't worry," he says charmingly, and John finds himself relaxing on his own accord, and forgetting about Sherlock. "No one will say anything to us, even if the teachers see us bunking classes."

"Thanks for. . ." John begins, feeling incredibly foolish, and then decided that he should change the subject, "Anyway, what class do you have now?" he asks him conversationally.

"Maths," he pouts again, "I hate it. So mind-numbing."

"Yeah," John finds himself agreeing, even though he really doesn't agree with him. Jim has that effect on him.

"The bruise is really bad," Jim sounds displeased, and John finds himself wondering what Jim might do to Jeff Hope later.

"Yeah, but it's alright. I've had worse."

"John," he sounds reassuring, "You can tell me anything, you know that, don't you? We're such good friends."

John resists a "Are we?", instead replying with, "What do you mean?"

"Why didn't you tell us that you liked Sherlock, when Irene asked you? Why did you lie?"

John tried to look cool and unaffected, but the way his shoulders stiffen and the blood has risen in his cheeks tells Jim everything he needs to know, "I—erm. . . I thought—"

"That you would be branded as gay?! Oh please! People are not homophobic at all!"

John heaves a sigh of artificial relief. He's just seen how homophobic Jeff Hope was, "Thank God—"

"But tell me," Jim overrides him, as if he has been looking for that very response. "You like Sherlock. . . but it's okay, I don't mind. No one can help it after all. But let me tell you something about Sherlock Holmes. All he cares about is his books, his experiments and his own after-school life that he never tells anybody. Not even me."

Jim says 'not even me' in such a tone that suggested that Sherlock was definitely not going to tell him if he hadn't told Jim about it. John knows that it's, of course, the truth. Nevertheless he frowns, "Is that. . . bad?"

"But I could talk to him for you. . . if you want," Jim replies, sounding terribly inviting, "make it work between the two of you?"

John's heart soars in the air. The thought of getting closer to Sherlock is. . . oh yes, he wants to get to know him so badly, reach out behind that cold mask of his and just. . . just with a little bit of hope of something that John doesn't know what to name, or maybe, he doesn't want to name. But he feels supremely happy that Jim will do that for him, so happy that he almost feels like he has been teleported away, like there's just air in the space that he had been occupying. They could work out, and the possibilities are infinite. . . and dazzlingly promising. . .

"Really? You would do that?" John's hopeful reply comes, while he tries to keep his voice normal and composed, "I mean, nothing embarrassing though, right?"

"Oh, no!" Jim withdraws his hand from his shoulder and looks utterly shocked at the idea, "What kind of friend do you think I am? Is that what you think of me?" he asked him accusingly.

"No—no!" John splutters, trying his best not to displease Jim. And just moments ago he had been wondering why people never want to displease Jim Moriarty of all people, "I'll never—"

"But tell me John, why would you not tell Irene that you like Sherlock Holmes?" John cringes at whenever Jim said that. It sounds reassuring and alright, but just right beneath the surface, John can hear a derisive mock, as if Jim slaps him every time he says that to him. John decides not to think too much. Maybe Jim's making an exception for him, just for his little pet. . .

"I told you—"

"Yes, yes," says he dismissively, "I know, you're afraid of coming out, but that's alright, I told you," and now his tone becomes patronising again, "Tell me the real reason."

Jim's leading him into the school, and they're now standing near the doors. Jim puts a comforting hand on John's shoulder, and John can feel the heat seeping into him through two layers of fabric. He has always assumed that Jim would be cold, by the way he looks and he acts, but his hand is actually hot.

"Erm—no reason. . ."

"You don't like her enough?" Jim asks inquiringly, "I mean, after she told you to back off from Kate."

John frowns, "You weren't there—"

"Yeah, of course, she told me!" Jim rolls his eyes, and John inwardly curses himself for being so dumb. Of course, she would. He makes a mental note to never tell Irene about things that he doesn't want Jim and Seb to know about.

"But you tell me, why don't you like Irene?"

"I never said—" John insists, but Jim cuts across him again.

"I mean I'm totally fine with you trusting me, in fact you should," Jim speaks self-importantly, and John tries not to feel uncomfortable, "but the thing is why don't you trust her, I wonder? Is it because you think she is nosy. . . I mean after the way she asked you yesterday?"

Jim's eyeing him curiously, and frankly in a weird manner, so much that John decides to give in just to get him off his back. He would've been happier in his classroom, but now he couldn't go back to his class, "Yes, but if she really is nosy and bitchy, she can't help it, can she? She is just so immature—"

"I can't believe you think I'm immature!" The shrill version of the cool and calm voice of Irene comes out of nowhere. John and Jim turn around to see Irene and Seb perched behind the doors, and he can't help but wonder where they came from.

"Goodbye, John!" Jim bides him a cheerful goodbye, and John's stomach drops when he realises that Jim has made him walk over to that part of the school purposely, just to make Irene hear that. This is the second time he has offended Irene, "Enjoy your classes!"

With that, Jim's out of sight with a perfectly placating arm around a hysterical Irene. John watches the trio, perplexed at what had just happened. But he has no other thought or consideration left for Irene in his mind when he thinks about the possibility Jim has left for him.

Until then, a major part of John (and now he realised what it really was) hesitated when Sherlock came in front of him, and now he realises it was because he somehow felt that he shouldn't talk to Jim's ex - boyfriend much, but now Jim has officially given him his blessing, hasn't he? He would no longer have to restrict his conversations (however single digit in number) with Sherlock whenever they see each other in corridors. Maybe, even if Sherlock could've defended himself perfectly, he would appreciate John's efforts, won't he? John would've appreciated if someone stood up for him, however untrue that was. Maybe now, when they would share a look in the corridors or when fishing their things out of their lockers, and now maybe Sherlock would acknowledge his presence, and maybe they would now sit in class together always, and maybe they would hang out once in a while and then, they would share an ice cream. . .

Wishful thinking, he sighs again. They first have to start talking, instead of John spinning fantasies about a distant future.

He looks around himself, and then decides to spend the reminder of the hour out in the grounds, lest he be caught by the Dean or somebody. He makes it perfectly easily outside the grounds, and then, notices that Sherlock is smoking a cigarette in a corner under the shade of a tree, staring into nothingness as he smoked.

This is the first time he'll be talking to him not because he has taken John's pen, or because they have accidently slammed into each other in the corridors, or because Sherlock has dropped a box of thumbs. They are going to talk because John wants to, because he's going to seek him out.

The tender skin surrounding the bruise feels less painful now. John takes a deep breath down his lungs and starts walking towards the mysterious boy who he wants to unravel (no pun intended).

Chapter Text

Even though it was only two days for which John had known Sherlock Holmes, with a litany of brief encounters in the corridors during the first day where Sherlock had been rushing to somewhere with all the books in the world in his bookbag and what seemed like his boxing kit slung over his slender shoulders, John stupidly feels that now Sherlock would at least include him in his life.

Sherlock, to John's surprise, bends to his knees, his back against the wall and opens one of the books which looks like a dictionary from that distance. Still smoking the cigarette, and John tries to remember whether it is against the rules to do so in school premises, he curls up and settles on the concrete, immersing over the textbook. John tries to think what clique he must belong to in the school, because it looks like everybody belongs to something. But since he was being punched by that Hope bully for being gay, he must be the "Outer Perimeter" guy, as Jim puts it. But then, John wonders why a guy as flamboyant as Jim would go out with Sherlock if he's such an outcast. Just for his looks?

Well, time to find out.

"Hey," John manages hoarsely as he approaches Sherlock, who looked up at him and John thought he detected a glint of recognition in his eyes. It might have been a trick of light.

"Hey," this time, Sherlock's voice is softer and not snarkish as before, and out of the blue, he offers John a cigarette, "Want one?"

John stares at him weirdly for one second and speaks too fast, "No thanks."

Sherlock's face drops, and John immediately feels guilty, "Alright, I'll. . . erm, have one, I suppose."

Now his eyes narrow, "But you don't want to."

"Yeah, erm. . . no," he says, feeling very foolish, "It's bad news for lungs and breathing."

"Pfft, breathing! Breathing's boring!"

John smiles at that response, at which Sherlock only gives a quick twitch of his lips, "The. . . erm, thing. . . that you offered. . . I mean. . . which you did, it was good."

Relieved that he hasn't sent the wrong message across, John plops down beside him on the concrete, shrugging his shoulders to come across as nonchalant, "Three boys against one. Hardly fair."

"Your face," he says hesitantly, and John is mildly surprised that Sherlock can even own such a tone, "It’s. . ."

John winces at the tender bruise that Hope's punch had left on his face, thinking how his mum and dad are going to take opposite sides on whether he should have got into a fight or not. Nevertheless, he looks at Sherlock hopefully, his tone expectant for sympathy, "Will become a black eye at the least."

Sherlock looks away, still blowing plumes of smoke, "Hmm. . . show me your hand."

John frowns in confusion, but nevertheless he extends his hand forward as Sherlock tramples the cigarette under his foot.

"You're going to need ice for that," Sherlock says, pointing to the soreness in his knuckles.

"It's okay," he says, hiding how much it hurt.

Sherlock throws him a weird look, and continues staring into nothingness. John scourges around desperately to think of things to talk about.

"Your notes. . . um, really helped a lot."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Going by the tone, John tries to understand if Sherlock is being sarcastic. He decides in negative, "Bunking classes?"

"You're hardly the one to scold me when you're the one—"

"Hey, I'm just asking," John tries to placate him, "Sorry."

To his surprise, Sherlock swallows and he steals what seems like a quick hesitant glance at John, "It's French now," he admits sheepishly, "I need to complete this book."

He looks down at it: A Brief History of Criminal Justice. John's eyes narrow.

"You need to finish. . . does your dad hand you out books to read. . . well, my mum does that. . . erm. . . never mind," he says quickly, thinking that Sherlock won't be interested in such talk. But Sherlock smiles in gratification, "Tell me about it."

"Erm. . . I was homeschooled, as in, my mum taught me things and stuff. So we had a lot of books stored safely in our basement cellars, just in case if there was a bombing, we could retreat to it, and so that the books won't be destroyed. So yeah," he smiles back at Sherlock's face thinking through, "My mum made me korma for every book I finished. . . it's an Afghan dish," he adds hastily.

"I'd like to see Afghanistan," Sherlock exclaims.

"I'll take you there sometime," John speaks without thinking, and then stammers, "Oh, no. . . that—I wasn't. . ."

For the first time, Sherlock's face is like an open book, or a half-open book into which John can peep in as he flushes with very slight pink colour. John clears his throat, and points at the book, "So, you want to be a police officer or something?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffs, "The force is a hotbed for corruption, nepotism and self-serving disinterest in anything that might derail their own upward ascent."

He raises his eyebrows, "Okay, I. . . erm, that's very strong feelings."

Sometimes they speak, but more often they don't. John looks away as Sherlock occasionally allows himself to glance at him and John feels his heart swell foolishly inside of him every time. As their conversation progresses, John finds himself talking to a completely different person. The first time he had talked to him, Sherlock Holmes had been a dramatic mystery, the second time, he had seemed like an untouchable boy, but now, as they talk, John is convinced that he is talking to an overgrown kid with a lot of self-pride. Sometimes, Sherlock seems so mature and grown up, but most of the time, he speaks about certain things that only a kid would complain about.

Nevertheless, the foreboding feeling of tension remains between them, as if there is something else Sherlock wants to say but doesn't know what, or how to say it. John's heart pounds against his chest the whole time as he sees how close their sense of humour is, or maybe that's just him. Sure, some of the jokes that Sherlock seems to make about certain things in his books would have blown anybody else off, but John somehow finds it insanely funny, not because he has an obligation to laugh, but because he actually finds it funny. He marvels at how Sherlock can be so many different people at once, how he can be so ethereal and untouchable and yet down-to-earth about some things, or how he can be arrogant about some matters like throwing John some uncensored remarks which make him sound as rude as his brother could be sometimes and yet so unintentionally humble about certain things.

Sure, he is bunking class, but that doesn't matter as long as he's with Sherlock. Because sitting next to Sherlock, having Sherlock meet his eye and give him half a grin always sends his stomach turning dizzy circles over and over again. Jim must have been the luckiest boy in the world to have gone out with him. It's like punching Jeff Hope has opened a whole new window for them, just a window from where they can extend each other's hands and just talk. A window far away from the scheming of his new friends, or the rules of the secondary school world, and the bro code which Seb has been explaining to him somewhere in English class with much gusto. A window into the world in which John would like to be very much, just because Sherlock's there in it, and the absurd things he talks about and all the things that John surprisingly believes in as he goes on and on.

And the feeling, he wants to believe, is mutual, because Sherlock doesn't just stand up and walk away, as John feels that he'll do if Sherlock were uninterested or, as he keeps on saying, bored. No, he stays and he talks and listens and laughs delightfully, but mostly talks, like a child who has never been given an opportunity to talk, or a baby who has just learnt how to speak.

Sometimes, John finds it very difficult to keep up with him, or the speed in which he rattles on about his deductions from the most minute of things. It's as if the school building will fall down on him if he stops talking, or if he were at gunpoint, he's so fast. But as difficult as it is following him word-to-word, it's just worth the colour that appears across Sherlock's cheeks whenever John praises him, or calls him "Brilliant!", and John feels positively high, as if his heart is leaping up and down his chest, as if he is riding a horse through endless plains.

John has never had a friend like this, if he can go as far as call him a friend, someone with whom he wants to spend all his time with. It's just talking, and John looks forward to the day they would maybe become closer friends, or hang out or when they'll share his favourite ice cream. . .

Oh, but they are already hanging out, aren't they? Even if it is only within school premises, John decides that he likes hanging out like this much more than in what anyone else would call "normal circumstances".

Wishful thinking certainly had its advantages, he smiles to himself.

So naturally, when the bell rings, signalling the end of day, John feels a little unfulfilled. An hour has passed like nothing. He decided that he would like to do this again, but he isn't sure whether Sherlock wants it too or not. He already feels like he's stepping a line, and he doesn't want to send Sherlock running away by asking for too much.

"I must be off," Sherlock finally speaks, when none of them make a move, "I. . . erm. . ."

Sherlock's face seems singularly expectant, but John doesn't want to fool himself by thinking that Sherlock wants him to stay too. Now that school is over, they walk together to the school grounds and slowly towards the exit, because both of them have to get out anyway.

"Yeah," John gathers up enough courage, praying to whatever deity he can recall, "Listen, I was wondering. . . maybe if you'd like to—"

The horn blares in the street, causing both of them to jump. John turns to see Jim, Irene and Seb in probably Irene's convertible. They beam at him, while Jim speaks in a sing-song voice, "Get in doofus, we're going shopping!"

John does not want to go. But he takes one look at Jim, and knows that he has to. If Jim is going to talk to Sherlock for him, he'd better keep him in good humour. With a breathless 'bye', he feels the air contract between them, a weird twisting, crackling sort of sensation, and he turns away abruptly.

He does not pause to see Sherlock's expectant face drop.

"Oh, you and Sherlock Holmes!" Irene cackles, all trace of having been upset with John gone. Maybe that is Jim's magic. "And I was scared you were going to make moves on Kate."

"But then too," Seb reminds him, "You can't like Sherlock Holmes. That's Jim's ex-boyfriend."

John risks a look at Jim. He wishes to know the secret of how Jim can always look confident and detached. He simply nods. Rules of the universe, my foot, he thinks. Jim had himself said that it's okay, so it is okay, no questions asked. He has had a most marvellous time with Sherlock, and he isn't going to forget it for some stupid rule he can't be bothered with.

"We're getting some suits for Jim," Seb supplies helpfully, "I haven't been to suit shopping for ages."

John simply nods. He's never thought of Seb to be one of those guys who like shopping. Jim's a posh guy, it's obvious that he would. But what he has always got from the rom-coms that his mum watches, guys are supposed to hate shopping. Apparently, that is not true.

"John," he looks up to see Jim smirking at him from the rearview mirror, "Do you even know what car this is?"

Only one comes to his mind, the only one he knows, "Cadillac?" He tries.

Jim laughs as Irene rolls her eyes at John, keeping her eyes fixed on the road while driving, "I love him," he says, "He's like a blank slate!" John does nothing to hide his embarrassment, not when there are two people sitting in the front seat and watching at his facial expressions.

It's getting awkward, spying on them. Although Greg and Mycroft try their best to convince John that Jim is an evil and a wicked dictator (according to Mycroft, wicked is worse than evil), John doesn't really believe it. Jim is. . . awesome. He is charismatic, fabulous, and actually the funniest person he has ever met in his life. Although some of his jokes are obscene and are targeted at Irene, he seems like a great guy.

"Did you even go for shopping in Afghanistan?" Seb asks.

"Sometimes a guy in a truck would come selling computer parts and guns. . ." John answers, thinking, "does that count?"

All of them laugh. They seem happy to keep John as their pet.

"Here we are," Jim says, his eyes searching, "House of Fraser, okay. . . Austin Reed, ew. . . yes, Westwood. . ."

It seems like Jim has some formal party sort of thing and he needs a new suit, and being Plastic, he needs all of their advice. The store seems pretty posh, too much posh for John, who's wearing a pink Celine tour shirt that Greg (things like "the guy's got pink shirts, Jesus!" and "too gay to function" echo in John's mind) has given him because of his serious lack of "proper clothing". He feels a little too underdressed. Jim notices his awkwardness and drags him over to the tailor where he's poked, prodded and measured over and over again even if he's not getting a suit tailored for him. Even the salesgirl is looking at his shirt weirdly and suddenly John feels much more self-conscious than anyone has ever managed to make him feel. Again and again, Jim fusses over him, and John feels slightly uncomfortable when Jim's hands are on his waist for a tad little longer. But Jim seems so preoccupied that John can't help but draw parallels between Jim and Sherlock on the basis of their preoccupied-ness and their lack of sense of boundaries or space most of the time. Jim basically educates John about how to pick the perfect suit for oneself. Not that John can see much difference between any of the suits that Jim has tried. All of them are black and taken in at the waist, flattering his lean body.

John complements Jim many times, because he truly does look so "fetch". Jim simply smirks and tries the next one.

And then they go for ties. That's the most uninteresting thing John has ever done. Jim makes small talk with the owner of the shop, who seems to know Jim like he is their regular customer. Most of the time, Irene fusses over him, taking out ties after ties, her face contorted with concentration. What is the point of this, John mulls over in his head, it's not like anybody's going to touch it to see what quality it is!

"So," John asks conversationally, "What's the occasion?"

Jim looks at him and smiles benignly, "Oh, Johnny! Don't worry, I'm not going to a party. It's more like a meeting, a formal thing, too boring for someone as colourful as you! And Irene dear," he continues in a lower voice, "please drag Seb away from the venerable old manager. I don't think he can digest so much stupidity."

It's like Irene is his full-time PA.

John smiles and frowns at the same time. Jim can be mean, but he's awesome. Seriously awesome. Jim's fun, he's smart, he's clever and sassy, so much that it literally shows in everything he does and everything he says. John's never met anyone like him. Jim's the sort of guy he's always fantasised Erik Hofmannsthal to be, albeit with an Irish tilt, which is not unpleasant to hear at all. In spite of everything, John can't help but feel a little bit wary of him, even if he's given him his blessing to try and hook up with his ex-boyfriend. But, exes are exes after all, right?

When John realises that this is going to take "some" time, he quickly goes outside and makes a brief call to his mum, informing her that he'll be late. She seems worried and delighted in equal parts at the prospect of her Johnny boy socialising without much effort, so much that he has to stay out late with his friends.

But she does remind him that he must return before eight. Which, embarrassingly, makes him feel like he's a five-year-old at a sleepover at a friend's house.

John looks around at his surroundings. They are somewhere in Knightsbridge. He has never been to this part of London before. But then, he is new after all.

It seems that Irene has some shopping to do as well. And, as expected, it takes her longer than Jim had taken. She finally settles for a short black silk dress and another chiffon blue one. The price makes John tear his eyes away from her to the much marginally dressed salesgirl who compliments every dress that Irene takes a shine to. Then, they just sit in Starbucks, sipping Frappuccinos, because yesterday they had not gone out at all, Irene tells John. John feels utterly useless, Jim's occasionally sending out texts, seeming immersed in his phone but John feels like Jim's radar is high up, watching everyone, knowing everything. Irene's simply chatting up with John and Seb about normal things like the not-so-fetch shopping centres and boutiques in Soho and how Gucci is "so out".

"So John," Jim turns to John at once just as he's finished with the texting. John frankly still doesn't understand why he's being showered with so much attention by the Plastics. Even million-dollar pets aren't treated all that well, "How do you like Westhaven till now?"

"It's alright, I guess. I'm sitting for BBO this year, so I'll have to study a lot."

Jim nods while Seb gives out a laugh even if it's supposed to be not funny at all. Jim gives him a cute pout upon hearing that Westhaven is only 'alright'. "B for. . . biology. Some Olympiad?"

"Yep," he says brightly, "Ms. Hooper put my name for it."

"Make sure you don't ignore us," Irene bats her eyelashes at him, "We're your only friends in this school."

John thinks about his two other friends who are planning havoc on them this very moment. He simply smiles. He finds out that if he's getting rather good with fake smiles. "Course."

"Oh God! They're looking for me," Seb groans, making all of them jump. He looks almost comically scared to death.

"What is it, Seb?" Irene asks soothingly.

"Football pricks, "he points at a direction over Jim's shoulders and crouches under the table. There are five boys, all very strongly built.

"Why in the name of all that's holy are football jerks doing in Knightsbridge of all places?!" Irene watches them curiously.

"Maybe they came to beg for donations for jerseys," Jim suggests, looking down at his phone, fingers tapping on it furiously, "You know, for that pathetic match where they can't even score a proper goal!"

"Seb, what did you do?" Irene continues in her most businesslike voice, after laughing at Jim's suggestion. John manages a late laugh only to realise that his efforts aren't all that appreciated. Maybe, he's just their pet in their system of unwritten social hierarchy.

"Just slept with Alexis, I swear," Seb growls.

"Adrian's girlfriend?"

She seems to know everything. Mycroft is so right. Seb nods, making an infuriating kicked-puppy face, "It was a onetime thing, I swear."

Jim, whose eyes are closed at the moment, flutter open. He's smiling mischievously,

"You remember that photo you took, Irene? During that party in Turner's house, of Alexis and that pathetic ex of hers, what was his name?"

"Right, it was Jeremy, I think. Hiding isn't a permanent solution. I'll send that photo to the whole lot. Seb, this is the last time I'm saving your neck. After this, I'll be the one to make sure that you get a good beating from them. I keep these photos for insurance, not to keep you safe."

Jim's now actually beginning to look like a dictator, who decides what's to be done, and what's not to be done, who decides what people could speak or what was utter blasphemy. Irene's more like the second-in-command, as John's dad would call any of her species, the one who always stays close to the dictator, keeping a hawk's eye on everything that's going around in the school. Like if a bunch of people cool enough for Jim are hanging out, she always gets the texts about where and everything.

But even that seems lame enough for Jim. John's never seen Jim interacting with a lot of people. The boy knows the virtue of exclusivity, after all.

Well, except if he has to downgrade someone.

Seb seems more like their "No one beats up my little brother but me" sort with so much libido that he can even make out with a chimp. Irene and Jim usually crack jokes about him and Seb only smiles and does nothing, doesn't even look hurt because he probably isn't, but they look like they can defend him to death if anybody outside the Plastics even dares to do something like that. John, in his mind, makes up a couple of jokes about Seb, just in case they require him to.

Jim smirks and winks at John and settles back into those uncomfortable chairs. John catches one glimpse of the multimedia Irene's sending to all of them. It's an obscene picture of a half-nude girl and a full nude guy, violently making out inside a closet. Only God knows how she's got that photograph. John averts his eyes away at once and turns in the direction of the baseball boys to see all of them reach for their phones, and gasp in delight except for two of them. A fight breaks out, and they smuggled Seb out of there.

Back in the car, Seb's laughing gleefully. This is the first shocking glimpse that John has into their mean personalities. True, they had saved Seb. But he's the wrongdoer, isn't he? And sending an old photo of a girl hooking up with her ex to not just her current boyfriend, but to the whole team is a very mean thing to do. John tries to laugh it off with the rest, but he can't reconcile the incident in his mind with Jim's natural charming persona. Perhaps Mycroft and Greg have been right all along.

They are going to Irene's house. John lets the unsettling thoughts in his mind rest for a while as he spots Belgravia approaching. Is that where she lived? She was crazy rich indeed.

"Your house is really nice!"

"I know, right?" she smiles pleasantly, "Now, John, if you see my mum's boyfriend anywhere in the house, don't grace him with even a look. That's the only rule here."

John nods stiffly, looking around the house in wonder. Seb and Jim look unfazed, like they are used to it. Right then, a woman appears in the hall who can only be Irene's mother.

"Hello darlings, how're you all? Hello, Seb! Jim, absolutely love that watch!"

He puts on the same face he had on when they were at the store, "Mrs. Adler, this is John."

She finally turns to him. "Oh, hello dear!" She begins flirtatiously as John tries to back away from her approaching fingers, "You are so DDG. . . Now, if you need anything, don't be shy. There are no rules in this house, darling."

John swallows uncomfortably, "Er. . . yes, thank you.. Mrs. Adler. You're. . . very, erm. . . DDG too—"

"Diana, please," she says in a voice so deep that John thinks he can bury a body in it, "Thank you, dear—" She winks at him and then grabs his shoulders to give him what classifies as a hug but it feels more like she's rolling her chest into him. John winces quietly at the painful feeling of her rock-hard boobs. He can feel her giving him a kiss on his cheeks. He tries his best to stay still as Mrs. Adler continues to take advantage of him.

"Mom!" Irene finally comes to his rescue at an urgent CQD signal from Jim, "It's first day and you've already started to molest John!"

"Oh sweetheart," she says as she withdraws, "Stop calling me 'mum' now! You know how people faint upon hearing that I'm not your big sister."

Irene rolls her eyes, "Please stop talking."

They go upstairs to her room. It's neat, bordering on obsessive. . . and doesn't look used at all.

She throws her purse on her bed and switches on the TV. Seb plays with her lab pup and Jim just stands by the windows, looking out at the street. Meanwhile, John looks around, never failing to be mesmerised.

"This is your room?"

"Yup," she takes off her shoes, "You should see my mum's. Smells so much better when Dad's there. At least it doesn't stink of sex all the time. . . Oh my god, it's the Paris fashion week!"

When John's with the Plastics, he feels like he has left the actual world and entered another world. All that glamour and riches, everyone is in your control and everything works in your favour. He turns around to look at what Jim was doing.

"What's that?" John asks Jim, looking at the large album in his hands.

Before Jim could say anything, Seb interrupts, "It's our BurnBook. We've been keeping it since last year. Once, Irene had her phone stolen and we lost a lot of data. Since then, we've been keeping this."

"Well then, why don't you take a backup?"

"They need to be original, of course," he tells John, as if proud of the fact that he knows something, something that perhaps Jim or Irene had explained to him before, "Plus, backups can be hacked easily. Otherwise, there's no point. In Photoshoped ones, if you go to the details of an image, you'll never get a camera-model name or number. It's something that cannot be added by the user—"

"Oh, I remember this one," Jim says quickly, interrupting him, "Michael Byrd and Ms. Smith. Remind me to send her a nice text. She's been such a pain."

"That looks like Mycroft Holmes doesn't it?" Irene interrupts, pointing to a middle school photograph of Mycroft receiving an award. John stiffens almost immediately, but nobody notices, thanks to God, "He has 'moobs'!"

"Still true!" Jim pipes up, and all of them laugh. John takes a moment to ask Seb what moobs are. He simply replies with a dramatic roll of his eyes, "Man-boobs, obviously!"

John tries not to pry anymore as they announce loads of names from their year and some of their teachers as well. If they are to completely trust him, he has to act like he liked making fun of it and not anything much.

"You should write something in it!" Seb announced, giving the Burn Book to John.

"Yeah," Jim agrees, "You do one. We might have a picture of someone here in the. . . Irene darling, bring me the yearbook!"

John looks appalled. It's only his second day, how is he supposed to write something bad about someone right on the second day. He strictly refuses, "No!"

Meanwhile, Irene is back with the yearbook, browsing through it for pictures. Seb natters on excitedly, "No one will ever find out!"

"How can I hate someone right on the second day?!"

"Anybody," Jim shrugs his shoulders, "Someone really stupid. . . like Seb!"

Seb looks downtrodden at that, but Jim doesn't even seem to care.

"But I don't want to."

Irene's eyes narrow, but a shadow of a smirk still remains on her lips, "Why, because you're so nice, and we're so evil?" She asks him pointedly, pouting her lower lip.

John looks around at the three of them, waiting expectantly for an answer. Reluctantly, John takes the Burn Book in his hands and spots Principal Stamford somewhere in the group photo. He makes a quote bubble over him, saying, "I keep ecstasy with me in my office."

Irene snatches it away to read it.

" 'I keep ecstasy with me in my office!' ? That's hilarious!"

Jim's eyes light up at that, "Is it true, John? My God, you're my best friend!"

With that, Jim pulls John into a very dainty hug, while making his face into something that says 'Gotcha!', something that John can't see. John wonders what is happening, thinking whether he should have done that. But nevertheless, he pats Jim's back awkwardly, thinking about what to tell Mycroft and Greg, and worst of all, whether to tell Mycroft, who Is very self-conscious about his weight, about 'moobs'.

Chapter Text

"And there's this Burn Book," John reports back to Mycroft obediently, "they have all sorts of things in there. Mean things and scandals about most of the students in the school, and probably much more!"

John, Greg and Mycroft decide that if they have to meet, it would be at Greg's place or at John's. Mycroft doesn't talk much about his family, except for the occasional mention of 'Mummy', so John and Greg decide not to push their luck. Thankfully, Mycroft doesn't ask anything about any mention of him in the Burn Book, so John doesn't tell him about the 'moobs' detail seeing as Mycroft's so sensitive about his weight, thinking that it might hurt him and make him go through more packs of cigarette a day.

"It's all there in Irene's phone. Seb knows only a little bit and I tried to smuggle stuff about them out of him. But Jim and Irene are very careful. . . they always watch him and make sure that he doesn't talk much."

Mycroft rests his chin on his palms. They are in Greg's room, where John's telling them about his day with the Plastics. It was tiring and very pointless, but Greg sounds very excited by the idea that they had been to Knightsbridge, and Mycroft had looked appalled at his feverish excitement.

"John, you have to steal that book," Greg blurts out.

"What? No! I can't spy on them anymore. It's getting weird—"

"My, do you think Lady Gaga is super sexy—?"

"Shut up, Greg!" Mycroft snarls, and the corners of Greg's mouth curl in disappointment at that, "Look, do you want to be serious about this or not?"

John rolls his eyes, "Look guys, I think there's no point—"

"There's every soddingpoint in this!" Mycroft cries.

"Come on, bub. We could publish it. Then everyone would see how mean they really are!"

"No, Greg. We can't do that," Mycroft mutters, his expression calculating and for the first time, John could see the carefulness behind that humorous slacker-mask that Mycroft puts on. He wonders if anyone can be genuinely themselves in secondary school. Well, except for Sherlock. "People would hate you more for publishing it. And besides, John said that there was nothing to indicate that it belongs to Irene. You will be getting yourself into trouble if you do anything of that sort. No, John, you said that there could be something else. . . We haveto go through the other Plastics. And you'll have to keep hanging out with them."

"BBO's in December, hardly five months remaining. I'll require a lot of time for studying. You can't expect me to go for shopping and hang out with them whenever they feel like."

"Do you know, John?" Mycroft looks like he's about to start with a fairy tale, which he does like always, "Last year, one of our seniors got expelled. He was wrongly accused of using drugs and supplying them to some freshers. We all know that he was nothing like that, very serious and studious. The only thing a few of us believe is that he had overheard Moriarty and Mr. Stamford discussing about something that he never even told anyone. That's what James Moriarty can do—"

"All the more reason I don't want to mess with him," he says, looking away from their imploring eyes and instead gazing at the abundance of product that Greg has in his bathroom. He wonders whether Mycroft really is right about the whole "too gay to function" thing.

"John," Greg shakes his head and speaks slowly, "There are two kinds of evil people in the world—"

"Yeah, I know that crap. And I'm not—I'm just saying—there's nothing in there for us. Screwing Jim Moriarty's life wouldn't get us anywhere—"

"Yeah—but think of all those peeps whose life won't get screwed up because of him. You told us that he was going to drop by Ms. Smith's. Probably mess up her life as well. Youcan show the world what an ax—wound he really is!"

"Well, Ms. Smith made out with one of her students. It was wrong on her part too—"

"Yeah, that was a bad example, but just think, John! And Jim won't ever find out, it'll be like our little secret!"

He looks down, wondering why he even said yes to mainstream-schooling, "Okay, fine. But as soon as I feel that it is becoming a burden, I'll quit. And no changing my mind after that."

"You know, John," Mycroft begins another tale, "Last year, one of the girls who was the editor of the school magazine wrote an article on school uniforms in there, and Irene Adler put peanuts in her yoghurt."

John frowns, wondering if having peanuts in your yoghurt was one of those things which is considered out-of-ordinary behaviour in secondary school, "Is that. . . bad?"

"She was allergic to peanuts," Greg continues solemnly, and John's eyes widen with horror at how cruel they can be. "She was hospitalised for a week, and there was no evidence that Jim or Irene did it."

"John, you'll be doing the entire school a favour if you kick Jim Moriarty out of the false sense of status he holds. Life will be so much better."

Even though Mycroft and Greg make him sound like the knight in shining armour saving the school, John really doesn't want to do that because he still feels like a conspirator, like Marcus Brutus fighting for the democracy of Rome (or in this case, the school). But they are his friends, and refusing would've made him look weak, so he simply shrugs his shoulders and says "okay".

The next few weeks are the best and the worst in John's life.

The best because he and Sherlock were coming closer, and because now they sat together in every chemistry class.

The worst because everybody in the school had begun to hate him and call him "fag" because he had stood up for one.

That is right anyway, but the term "fag" is derogatory and unacceptable. It's not his choice, is it? It's just the way God has wired him.

John wonders if this is a part of associating with Plastics, but then none of the Plastics have "pussy" or "Jew" or "fag" spray-painted on their lockers. Jim's never been made fun of because of his short height. Seb's never accused of being a Jew even if he has a large nose and weird hair and Irene never has "slut" spray-painted across her locker. As he arrives in the school the next day, many of the kids begin calling him a Jew. John tries to shrug it off like it's no big deal, because in Guy World you're never supposed to complain, you're just supposed to blow everything off like it's a joke.

But it's difficult and frankly hurtful for John, because he's homeschooled and he isn't used to such things. Some people even come up to him and say, "Sup, Jew?" For two weeks, people call him a Jew and not "John" as if that isn't his name at all, and they throw pennies and coins at him just because of the stupid stereotypes that people have about Jews. Many-a-times, he makes up his mind to go to Principal Stamford, or even Ms. Hooper, who has always promised that she'll do anything to help for anything at all, but he just hopes that it'll pass away.

Mycroft and Greg want him to say something, but John just shrugs it off.

"I think you should tell your mum and dad," Greg suggests, "Although, this is something we've all gone through, it IS unacceptable."

"You've got to be careful, John," Mycroft warns him, his eyes sympathetic, "But this is not Jim's doing. Jim adores you, but when he strikes, it is deadlier. This is the idiots that make up the bulk of the rest of the year."

John manages a smile at that, "Does this always happen to the new kid?" Because as John has always known, in Afghan culture, a guest is given the highest respect and is equivalent to God. Treating a new kid like that is completely apart from what he has learnt for years.

Greg and Mycroft share a look and as if with mutual consent, Mycroft speaks maybe because he's supposed to better with words, "Not as brutal as your experience, but—"

"But what?" John demands.

"Maybe it's because you've joined the Plastics!" Greg blurts out, and John frowns at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, "Well. . .. erm, Greg and I think that you're being targeted because you just "got" to be in the Plastics."

John opens his mouth to speak, and then shuts it in realisation. Every kid wants to be in the Plastics because they are elite, they are royalty, because it's better to be in the Plastics, hating world, than not being in there at all. Greg and Mycroft tell him about all the pathetic things that people do to get into their group. They actually fight and work for it, follow all the trends that Jim and Irene set, follows all the rules that they lay down. These kids constantly put up a front, just like Jim and Irene do, and they build it up in school. They walk around with this scowl and attitude of, "I’m so cold and tired of everything". So, it's natural that John, a new student who just happened to come and was invited to the group, doesn't "deserve" to be in the Plastics because he's  never "worked" for it. Just because the others have gone through misery, they unanimously decided that John, now that he's a "member of the club" too, should go through it too.

"Seriously?! It's not even my fault—"

"Shhh, Shhh, John listen," Mycroft shuts him up, "If you're teased because you're a Plastic, why don't you use it to your advantage?"

"How?"

John tries, he tries his best to be nice to people, so that perhaps they will look past the fact that he's now a Plastic and maybe they won't hate him. But it turns out, that he's doing something wrong and he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't understand, because John's usually not wrong when it comes to observing other people's behaviour and acting accordingly.

Even as a baby, he took social cues from the people around him. He watched, he repeated, and then those actions became his own. Unlike in secondary school, he never had to consciously think about what he was doing or whether he was doing it right or not.

A kid high-fived and his parents clapped and smiled, so he knew he was doing it right.

A kid blew kisses when his grandma left the room, and everyone loved it and he knew that it was right.

By the time John was twelve, he knew to say, "Hi, Mom," or just kiss his grandma on the cheek, and he greeted his Afghan friends with his own version of "Hey, what’s up?" He also knew that one shouldn’t stand really close to people when they talked or constantly interrupt them. He always knows what people feel right, so what in God's name is different now?

Because everything he does seems to blow people off. Guess the person who said that "A man is known by the company he keeps" was right after all, even after John's relentless attempts.

But the problem was, the nicer John was to them, the worse they are to him.

During the lunchtime, John's an all-time low, and finally Irene lifts her head and asks him about whatever it is that's bothering him. It's actually comforting that there was a girl in the Plastics, because John feels like he can open up to a girl more easily than to a guy, in case a boy decides to shut him up for being so sensitive. It's really weird for John because he has never had anyone say such things to him, except his father, and although John always thought that his father joked, now he was beginning to think that he probably wasn't.

"It's just. . . forget it, it's stupid," John shrugs her hand away sadly.

"John!" her voice was sterner now, "Is it about being called "fag"?"

Unfortunately, and fortunately, Jim arrives at that very moment and hears Irene. John decides to give in.

"They're calling me a Jew," John tells her, and Jim too, who listens in intently, "They're throwing coins at me like I'm some beggar. And worse, they're all homophobic—"

At that, Irene and Jim let out exclamations of shock. John wonders if he too is on the path to becoming 'no one beats my little brother but me' sort.

"This," Jim breathes out in his calmest of voices, "is war."

"Who was it?" Irene's eyes narrow, and she looks like she's plotting the pressure points of all the students in her mind.

"No. . ." John shakes his head at once. Just because he's being victimized doesn't mean that he's going to let another student have his life screwed, is he? After all, that is why the bullying started in the first place, "You don't have to do—"

"Anybody who insults you, insults us," Irene reassures him and then continues in her most imperious tone as she draws her phone out. "The name."

"It started with Jeff Hope, didn't it?" Jim asks him. John begins to shake his head in refusal, but too late. Seb has already summoned Jeff at Jim's telepathic orders. John watches Jim take a moment to compose himself and put on the diabetic sweet smile, "Hi, Jeff!"

Meanwhile, Jeff looks like Jim is honouring him by talking to him, "Hi, listen Jim, can I—?"

"Did you call Johnny a fag or a Jew? How pathetic!"

Jeff's face drops at once and he turns to glare murderously at John, "No, I—"

"Irene," Jim croons like he is giving orders to his second-in-command for implementation, "If you would."

At their relative positions to each other, they seriously look like the dictator and his second-in-command.

"Say sorry," Irene demands as if executing Jim's orders."Sit down on the ground, and crawl on your limbs like a dog ten times around the lunchroom," she smirks cruelly, and John wants nothing more than to tell them that it isn't needed, and that this is total abject humiliation in the public. But then he feels that this isn't about him. Maybe the Plastics just need to pick on someone, and John is simply an excuse.

"Say sorry," Irene warns him dangerously, as Jim nibbles on his cheese fries, "Or you know." She waves her phone in her grip. John wonders what's there in it for a thousandth time.

Jeff looks down at his sneakers, his blanched face burning with shame. He gulps, and not meeting John's eye, he mumbles, "S—sorry."

"Like a dog!" Irene snaps. John can see his fists trembling, his nails sinking into his flesh and his knuckles whitening, but he feels as powerless as Jeff probably is. Then, with a deep breath, Jeff sinks to his knees and everybody laughs as Seb aims a cream-loaded muffin at his behind and throws it in his direction. Many others join as well, following the Plastics' suit.

Not able to do anything, Jeff simply crawls on the floor, hiding his face from everyone, and John just wants to go away, away from everybody's laughs and Seb's giggles and Irene's smirks and Jim's yawns. His face is burning red from all the effort of containing everything inside him.

It's a complete dead-end. If he stands up for Jeff, he'll come across as a "pussy" and a "drama-queen" to everyone. And if he laughs along with them, he would just hate himself. His eyes travel to the entrance of the cafeteria, and he feels like he's going to puke when he sees Sherlock Holmes standing there, frozen, watching the scene in front of him with plain white shock written on his face.

"Now bark," Irene's commanding voice carries over all the name-calling and the whistling, and Jeff acquiesces.

For one second, Sherlock's eyes meet his, and John can feel perplexity in his eyes, along with accusation and everything that he himself had been feeling till now. John feels as though Sherlock is silently deriding him for being such a pathetic coward. He shrinks into his seat, feeling another sickly, guilty pang in his stomach. His lips tremble as he watches Sherlock's eyes travel from his and back to Jeff barking much like a dog, and then he turns away, and walks away towards the exit.

John looked down at his lap. His palms are sweaty, his heart is pounding, to the extent of almost jumping out of his chest and he could've easily run a few laps of the grounds without drawing a single breath. He exhales heavily, realising that he had stopped breathing while Sherlock had been looking into his eyes.

He risks a look at Mycroft and Greg, who are completely stunned and horrified, and surprisingly, they don't look as critical of John as he expects them to be.

For the next week, Seb's newest pastime is educating John about the various details of every clique: who's what, what are their pressure points, and what separates one from the other.

Basically, as Seb explains to John with some writing aid in extremely poor spelling that John has to ask him twice, all cliques have some things in common. John was right initially. Secondary school is a lot like Afghanistan and the army:

There's a pack leader, someone that John likes calling the "General", charismatic and naturally good at figuring out people’s weaknesses based on what will cause the maximum amount of humiliation. He decides what’s funny, stupid, cool for the gang etc, and has the absolute right to dismiss any opposing viewpoint or opinion. This can apply to anything, from sneaker colours to real-world issues or to even calling dibs, an idea John finds extremely ridiculous. Usually, the General is excellent at arguing, and especially good at arguing with girls and making them feel stupid.

Similarly, this goes for the female ones too, the ones that Seb calls Queen bees. Usually the Queen Bee or the General is exceptionally good at side-remarks and comebacks, and usually, that person is rich and many-a-times a control freak.

Then there is the "Second-in-command", or more like the "Vice-Chancellor", much like Irene is in their group, but John doesn't make that observation to him. While the "General" doesn't have much contact with his peers, usually opting to stay in his own social circle, the second-in-command is a cleverer and a more flamboyant person, and also more interested in other people’s business and what advantages they can get from it. In that way, Irene is perfect for the role.

From what John observes about Jim, Irene and Seb, they hate losing to anybody. If they ever do (like the one time when Jim failed Maths and he had declared that it was the fault of the teacher who did not teach them well enough), they make loads of excuses. Seb likes breaking rules in school in ways that makes him look like he doesn't give a shit about what anyone thinks of him.

And when they did get in trouble, Irene made it her personal responsibility of undermining and intimidating the adult who was disciplining them, making them feel victimised.

All in all, John feels like it is worse than the battlefield. This war is on the inside, with words and frankly sneaky, like putting peanuts into yoghurt, and John reports everything faithfully to Mycroft and Greg, who are starting to work on how to prove everything that Seb was telling John about. Greg seems frankly surprised that Jeff Hope has still not contemplated suicide after that vulgar humiliation.

"Stupid Gucci Hoochie," Greg swears under his breath.

John can't put into words how insignificant it all is to him, compared to the one thing, the one person who shares his bench in Chemistry class.

And now, he is beginning to become distant too.

For two months, Sherlock is great. He once asks John to stay behind after school for experiments. John tries to tell him off that they might be caught even as Sherlock breaks into the lab and uses the chemicals freely, but even he can't deny that it's wonderful to help him (and to break into the lab in the first place). And from then on, John rushes after him whenever he texts him, helps him in every way that he can, holds beakers for him, insists that he should give the blood samples instead of wasting Sherlock's blood, cleans up after him, sometimes even misses his football practice, and once, Sherlock even shares some chocolate cake with him while they sit together after the conclusion of a particularly successful experiment.

"What's this?" Sherlock inquires, and John laughs at his incredulous face, plopping down next to him just to be able to sit close to Sherlock.

"This is cake, you know."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but otherwise he doesn't protest John sitting next to him when there's another bench a few feet away, "Of course, I know, John. What I meant was what's the occasion."

"Do we need an occasion to eat?"

"You need occasion for cake."

John snorts. Cake is a fairly regular eatable in his life, "You don't like it?"

He simply shrugs his shoulders, "Body is transport, John. Eating will slow me down."

John frowns at him, "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! How is your body going to function when you don't take food, or when your stomach starts aching so much that you can't think?!"

But Sherlock simply fixes him with a weird stare, as if trying to disprove John's words by simply his penetrating gaze. John coughs away the uncomfortable and slightly unwelcome scrutiny.

"I am always thinking, John," he replies in a low voice, as if he were ashamed of it, "Always."

John wants to believe that this is literal. That what Sherlock says has no hidden meaning underneath, that he always thinks and that is supposed to be fine, isn't it? John would've given anything to be able to think like Sherlock does, to be able to seein people who is what as an aid to understand why he sets some people right off, and why his football mates despise him despite his natural talent and his perfect aim.

So why is Sherlock admitting it like it's some sort of a dark secret of his?

He can easily imagine Sherlock's mind, analysing everything, his brain unable to properly process the huge disarray of thoughts and information. Where John sees colour, Sherlock sees its origin, its history, the various pigments, their chemical formulas and structures. Where John sees mud, Sherlock sees where it has come from, in which particular place in London, right to the street spot on, he sees the texture. It's like Sherlock was a biology student who looks at the world through the lens of the microscope, analysing, docking away useful facts, and trying to reject the others from the continuously overflow of information, like someone just keeps shoving books into your lap and there's only a limit till which you can carry, after which, all books, useful or not, start spilling from your grip as you helplessly fumble around.

John can just imagine what Sherlock goes through every day, the secret to his aloofness to the entire world because he's just too busy dealing with himself and his environment.

And he just can't verbalise how special it makes himfeel, that in spite of everything, Sherlock allows him in his life, that in spite of trying to deal with the plethora of tiny titbits of details which buzzes in his life, he doesn't dismiss him.

"Whatever, this cake is delicious," he exclaims, trying to lighten the sudden gloom which falls upon them. Sherlock's face relaxes, and he looks away.

"What do you mean by delicious food, John?" he asks innocently, and John chokes on the cream. Then, for the umpteenth time, John thrusts in his hands a slice, and Sherlock watches it, as if trying to single out with his eyes what brand of butter has been used.

Sherlock can't help but just start thinking.

"The sort which keeps you licking your fingers even after you've licked the plate clean," John speaks. Sherlock shoots the piece of cake a wary look, and to John's surprise, he thrusts all of it into his mouth, getting little bits of cream over his nose.

"He he!" John laughs as Sherlock licks his fingers practically clean. "You like it? I thought you didn't like cake."

Sherlock wolfs it down his throat, "Who says that?"

John watches him fondly, and then looks away when he realised that he is staring at him, "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"Mycroft brings so much cake over to the house that I can barely take it," he grumbles, rising out of his chair to pack his things away, and leaving John alone. John can't help but notice how disorganised their experiment has been, but how neatly Sherlock packs his things and puts them in his bookbag. He turns around, and gives John a smirk, "I can see why."

With that, he swiftly turns around the corner and he's gone in an instant. John doesn't know whether to smile goofily at their brief moments of bickering or whether to lament at the fact that Sherlock never bides him goodbye properly.

A stupid sentimental part of his brain keeps telling him that this is maybe because Sherlock never really wants to say goodbye.

------

Sherlock always seems very interested in his memoirs of Afghanistan like no one else does, none of his new friends, and John feels like he has a connection with him there. And when John looks into his eyes, he always sees a far-away look, as if Sherlock is miles away from him, and yet not apart, like there is some invisible seam between them which keeps them together, which doesn't make John feel alone. In fact he feels closer to Sherlock than he ever does because he feels cut-off from the rest of the world with only Sherlock materialising in front of him, Sherlock with his quick half-smiles and his witty comebacks and his steel gray eyes.

He even wants to go further and touch Sherlock on his shoulder, just because he wants to, or just because Sherlock will not mind, or Sherlock probably wouldn't mind, but he doesn't because he feels like he would be overstepping a boundary. He doesn't understand why Sherlock gives off the vibe that he never wants anybody near him when he is so free with John.

Or maybe he is just free because he isJohn.

Maybe. But mostly impossible.

And today is one of those days which proves it right.

He knows Sherlock's vices. John knows that he gets bored and he knows that he needs distractions, puzzles, experiments, and John can feel the bitter, burning twinge of selfish jealousy within him when he sees how heisn't enough. That no matter what he does, Sherlock needsthings, will always need things to keep him occupied, and what John does isn't going to be enough. Not ever.

So when Sherlock comes up to him and tells him all of a sudden that Jennifer Wilson is suffering from a nasty stomach bug and that she has been hospitalised for a week, John's head swims pleasantly.

Jennifer Wilson is a pretty blonde, she is the captain of all the girls belonging to the "horny cheergirls" clique, as Greg and Mycroft call them. She shares the Chemistry and Physics class with John. He doesn't like her one bit. Once, John had been in the lockers at the time when she had been recording herself and encouraging another guy with severe social and learning disabilities to yell that he wanted to have sex with other boys who were in the room. While he was delighted with her attention, the other members of the school soccer team were not amused.

As John watched the boy giggle in a desperate effort to please Jennifer, he felt disgusted by her callous use of him for her own entertainment and he felt genuinely worried for his safety once she left the room. So, he did what he considered the right thing to do, after not having being able to watch Jeff Hope being humiliated in front of everyone in the cafeteria, John decided that he should speak up.

He had taken the phone from her hands, and shut it off, telling her to stop because she's not being cute at all. Jennifer may have accused him of being a sissy, and some of the boys might have begun to target the retarded boy, and some of them may have suggested that John's only standing up for him because after the practice, he would take him to a corner and bugger him there, but John tried to placate them and tell them that she was just aggravating the retarded boy.

The next day, Jennifer Wilson's flying around, circulating vicious rumours about him. As if there aren't enough already.

But still, when Sherlock comes up to him and tells him that there is something wrong with Jennifer Wilson for having fallen sick right before the Cheerleading Championships, considering that he has heard a lot of rumours about Westhaven giving the other schools very tough competition, John feels that something is off.

"Sherlock," John tries to convince him, while trying not to state explicitly that he is being a little too paranoid, "She might have got a simple bug, y'know. These cheerleading girls take all sorts of things to remain athletic. You might be overthinking it—"

"No," Sherlock shakes his head in a preoccupied fashion. "That is simply not possible. She had nothing wrong, and the doctors are puzzled about it. There's nothing wrong with her diet or any toxins."

"But. . . look, it may not be a big deal—"

"Big deal?!" Sherlock scoffs, "You know, the day she gets discharged coincides exactly with the day on which the competition ends. It's too much of a coincidence."

"Wait," John has a hunch that Sherlock is telling him this after having played hooky all by himself, "How do you know this?"

At this Sherlock looks like he's been caught with a pet bird in his mouth, "Someone. . .. might have slinked into the hospital, and her charts might have ended in my desk."

John gives out a roar of laughter, while Sherlock's lips quirk in that endearing half-smile of his, "Sherlock, seriously? Oh God, only you!"

John doesn't see Sherlock flush with little colour upon seeing John laughing so freely for the first time after all the weeks of bullying and non-verbal peer torture. He coughs in a manner that suggests that he isn't joking. John's laughter dies down in an instant.

"It's not a simple stomach bug. Someone has gone out of their way to make it look like this was intended, and I need to find out who."

John's smile fades too. He wants to tell Sherlock that he might be over-thinking it, that his desire for clever things, for puzzles, excitement and distractions is getting the better of him, but he looks down, trying not to picture the disappointment Sherlock will feel that the one thing that seemed so promising during his days of black moods will turn out to be ordinary after all.

"Sherlock, maybe—"

"Come on, John," there's a heart-warming flush in his cheeks as his eyes shine like stars, "We've got a bit of burglary to do."

Chapter Text

It's going to be so wonderful to help Sherlock. That's the first thing that comes to John's mind when he sees him at work, even though he's not actually going to watch him work, but he can imagine it, picture it so easily. Sherlock loves solving puzzles and mysteries, and even though John wants to pull him back, tell him, make him reconsider that he might be overthinking it, that a distinct lack of interesting things might be getting the better of him, he stops when he sees the look on the older boy's face, the change in the air as if something of some alien nature has broken down the dielectric strength of the air and now sparks are flowing, attacking through like a whole bunch of arrowheads in a battle.

John has never been in this part of London. It's a bit less posh than where he lives. There are trees on the pavement, the air does not smell of smog and the hospital which houses Jennifer Wilson right now is standing in front of them, reflecting the grey London sky and the birds which fly past. The sun focuses its glare on John's eyes and he recoils a little. He gulps, and gulps even more when he turns to look at Sherlock. Sherlock is smirking and he reaches out to pat John's shoulder affectionately. John feels warmth infuse into his shoulder joint at the much appreciated gesture. Sherlock is trusting him with this. trusting him to act the part and not give up the game, and John isn't going to let him down. Not at all.

Sherlock's on a super secret mission now, about which he tells John and he feels a little overwhelmed to be showered with so much trust from Sherlock in such a short time. The plan formed by Sherlock is to have a punch-up with John so that Sherlock breaks one or two of his bones because John refuses it the other way round and because John is also against the theory of breaking into Jennifer Wilson's room himself and going through her files. That should be Sherlock's job, because frankly, Sherlock must be good at this, he must be better and there's no second-guessing it. He knows more than John, and so he'll be able to do this better than him, this breaking-in-and-reading-her-files business. Sherlock always knows everything, he is infallible. He has never failed and can never fail. And he will never.

Also, when the choice is between getting beat up and illegally sneaking to check up on Jennifer Wilson, he prefers the former.

Sherlock says that there is something wrong, it's too much of a coincidence. Sherlock says that it was intentional, or it can be out of spite. But most certainly, the goal was to not allow her for the competition, maybe a rival school or something.

John argues, trying to catch up with the whirlwind that the sheer speed of Sherlock's thought process leaves behind as he rushes ahead, higher and deeper and as John is caught in the tumultuous tornado.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John knows better than to argue, but it seems a little out of his depth, "what are the chances of that? No one cares about a stupid comp—"

He's interrupted before he can finish by a pair of silver-grey eyes so piercing that it can send X-Rays through a bone and shatter it apart by resonance and John can do nothing but watch Sherlock, look into those eyes which have now become uncharacteristically soft at John's words, but only for a moment. John shuts up because he realises that Sherlock must be more educated in the ways of people around in Westhaven than John is, even with all the crash course that Sebastian Moran and Greg Lestrade are making him take for free, and John can do nothing but listen to Sherlock, let Sherlock break just two of his ribs, the strength and the angle of the impact precisely calculated.

Sherlock is careful as to avoid injuries which can really hurt John. John thinks that that is because Sherlock now does consider him a friend (or hopefully something more). Sherlock tells him as he supports John to the hospital, his whole body burning with fever crossing 120 at the least, that idiot bullies don't have the brains to hurt you in the right place.

John's soul collapses like a suspension bridge crumbling. Silly him. How could one even ever like him in the face of Jim Moriarty, the popular boy, the boy who has everything, everything that even a God would want?

Sherlock supports him carefully, more carefully than actually needed. John is both glad and disappointed to part with the intense heat emanating from Sherlock as they reach the reception.

He's never seen Sherlock so keyed up before, ready to tear apart, the gears of his mind turning, rubbing, grinding up against each other, creating frustrating friction, creating sizzling sparks, electric currents crossing synapses as fast as light, faster than light, a comet speeding into its orbit, dazzling with brilliance through the darkness of the universe as it approaches its Sun. It's fast, it's amazing, it's brilliant, it's enchanting seeing Sherlock like that. It's almost like John's back in Afghanistan, only this time, it's different. It's not a bombing he has to survive, it's an arrest. He has to keep up the game, he has to distract any of the medical personnel from entering Jennifer Wilson's room till the time Sherlock's in there by pretending to be a little injured boy. He has to pretend to be a cry baby and he does not remember his mummy's mobile number because he feeds them some crackpot story about some bullies mugging him and breaking a couple of his ribs. He has to keep his cool even as the high cracks him apart, takes him apart.

Oh, it is so poisonous.

Sherlock says, Sherlock does, Sherlock sees. . .  this and that. His mind is brimming with him.

It's breathtaking, it's almost like riding a bike through plains, causing the road to split underneath as you go faster and faster, as the friction with the air causes the grass to catch wild fire and the tectonic plates to shift. As the Earth cracks apart, you see lava underneath you, and it allures you even as you desperately try to avoid it. You want to take it in your hands and you want to know what it feels like, the sensation of being burnt, being charred to ashes. It's irrational, it's relentless. Crazy doesn't even begin to cover it.

It's madness.

It's exhilarating, it's aggravating, it's frustrating. And needless to say, fantastic. Even the most mundane of jobs given by Sherlock races his senses into overdrive.

Such is the way John feels as he distracts the nurse and the doctor. The feeling that Sherlock is a couple of rooms away, going through Jennifer Wilson's files and charts and that if he's caught, John will give away, be forced to give himself away, and although John believes that Sherlock won't be caught, no, Sherlock will never be caught, although he knows that Sherlock can never be caught, there is no power in the universe which can reach out to the tiny nagging sensation at the back of his head and tear it apart, even if it tears him apart.

The doctor makes a murmur about ward number three-three-six, and John gives out a painful cry. Now that he has made it in, he has no idea how he's going to make it out of there. Sherlock appears outside the room John is in. And he looks positively gleeful. John tries not to sigh in relief.

Even more as Sherlock pretends to have noticed John and puts on a Oscar-winning act of knowing John and faux-calling his parents at once. Doctor says the ribs will heal and he's discharged after two hours of drama. John sees Sherlock's mouth itching to say that he has calculated the exact force required before inflicting it on John. John grimaces at the memory. Sherlock is a boxer after all. He knows, he always does, and John's sure that if he takes that skull and removes it layer by layer, he will soon be able to hear the clink of smooth, oiled, well-kept, maintained metal against metal turning, rotating, moving, with no speck of rust on them. He's still breathing hard as they walk out of the hospital. Sherlock is cooler, but John knows as he sees the shivering carotid under his jaw, standing up as the incriminating evidence of what they have just done.

"Enjoy it?" Sherlock asks him. John nods.

"Oh yeah," and then he confesses. "Bit like Afghanistan, to be honest."

Sherlock's face crinkles into a smile and John is soaring high up in the air even as he knows that Sherlock is right beside him, matching his step in spite of him having longer strides. Sherlock likes talking about Afghanistan, for some reason John can't understand. Afghanistan wasn't safe, they lived near the barracks, whose outskirts, meaning John's house, could be bombed any time by guerrilla terrorists. It could be any time that John and his mother went into the market that they could be kidnapped. It could be anytime that his sister was left alone in the house and she could be raped. And yet. . .

Sherlock is happy. Sherlock is. . . delighted, much more than John had expected him to be, as if he's found something more than what he had expected. Sherlock actually has an excited hitch in his step. It's enough to drive John crazy to see that the impossible boy wrapped up in twisting angles and hidden fathomless depths, clever traps underneath his curious aloofness and with a superior air has an actual hitch in his step. It's almost hard to believe that this very boy had been so wary of him when they met each other, during the shared sidelong glances in the hall, or even during the incident with thumbs.

John so desperately longs to know what's going on inside that machine-like fast and dizzying brain of his. Terms like "Lithium poisoning", "lethargy", "seizures" and "diarrhoea" are all he hears Sherlock mutter as they exit out of there and John's trust in Sherlock is never affirmed as strong as it is now.

Sherlock is right. He always is.

He is infallible.

Sherlock tells John that this is clearly an inside job, someone who knew Jennifer Wilson, not a rival school because even though Jennifer was the captain of the cheer girls team, if the rival school had to target anyone, it would have to be their strongest link. Someone upon whom Westhaven's victory depended on.

And in Westhaven High cheer girls, Jennifer isn't the strongest link, she's only the charismatic, popular leader, the Queen Bee of her clique. It's someone else. Someone who wants to take Jennifer's place as the captain for the season. Someone who thinks that she deserves to be the captain, not the popular, bitchy, charismatic, undeserving Jennifer Wilson.

Sherlock shakes his head, says that no cheerleader girl is brainy enough to know that lithium is a poison to human body. John reminds him that every person in their school has access to internet and a bit of negative influence. Sherlock nods in agreement and John realises that Sherlock hadn't thought of something as obvious as that.

Sherlock asks John, as they share a vanilla ice-cream together just like John had thought of the first day they had met, who it can be. John wonders himself, who it can be as he yawns, having not slept properly the previous night.

"Am I boring you?" Sherlock remarks wryly, "With all of this?" John shakes his head, denying it, only denying. Nothing more, nothing less.

He doesn't tell him that Sherlock can be anything but boring.

If there's one thing John learns about manipulating boys, first rule, it's saying: "don't get all senti, man/mate." "Sentimental" is the forbidden word in guy dictionary, the one thing a guy is never supposed to be, never allowed to be. Having sentiment is being weak, being a pussy, being sensitive, being girlish, being gay, as many boys wrongfully claim to be. Thankfully, the Plastics aren't all that hype about sexual orientation so John's got insurance there.

Rule one, as Seb continues to teach him and as John begins to think that Seb isn't all that dumb after all: when a guy's winning over you, you say "don't get all senti, man!" and the guy backs down. It's just like the animal world, John thinks, everyone wants to appear as something appealing to others, to build up a front and appear as cool and powerful and have the emotional range of Batman. Seb teaches him about it all the time, seeing as John is very tolerant of such things, that to appear elite, you have to work for it, you have to be bold and make some moves that you personally wouldn’t make but have to in order to fit in.

"Don't get all senti, man" works on everyone like a charm except on Greg and Jim. John doesn't dare to try it on Sherlock, seeing as he never really is sentimental after all.

John learns this real easy. Learns that he's a part of the royalty, that he's one of those boys with the parties and the booze and the hot girls (or guys). John was beginning to feel like if he didn’t fight to be in this group he would just fall behind and blend in with the rest of the crowd and secondary school would be pretty crappy that way. Although he really didn’t care as much about his "social standing", but no matter what any guy says, the others, they truly cared.

John wishes he could see the point in this. He doesn't need hot girls or guys because the hottest guy in the world is currently making him a part of his eccentric adventures even though he only considers him a friend and John's more than okay with that, hell he's okay with everything Sherlock gives him. Secondly, he doesn't drink, but he has to once in a while, to not appear as a homeschooled jungle freak, to not let Irene and Jim down on their decision to incorporate and invite John to all their parties. He forces the foul-tasting liquid down his throat while Jim leers at him and congratulates him on his first beer.

"One day, John," Jim puts an arm around his waist, way too below for normal. "Even ten pints won't be enough."

John makes it a point to never get drunk. What would happen him his mother and father smelled alcohol on him? What if, John thinks worriedly, Sherlock smells alcohol on him? What if Sherlock doesn't like that sort of thing? John doesn't want to do anything to let Sherlock down.

Suddenly he has to live up to so many expectations: to his mum and dad's, to his teachers' and especially Miss Hooper for his grades, to Greg and Mycroft's for revenge against the Plastics, to his football mates who were starting to accept him, to Irene and Jim and Seb's for making them appear as cool and for being used as a smokescreen when dealing with parents and authority figures. As in, "I'm so sorry, Officer. I know my friends were really loud. We’ll keep the music down, I promise.".

It's really hard managing football and studies and his "extracurricular activities" as he tells his mum and dad now. Football takes up maximum of his time, followed by the Plastics and then studying is limited to only three hours a day which begins at one am at night.

"Don't be such a fucking tit, John!" Is what John's told by the captain when he tells him that he might not be able to come for practice because he had to study for the next chemistry test, "It's the first game of the season."

John has no other option. He has never felt the pressure, but he still manages to say in as much douchebag-ey way as he can, "Don't get all sensitive, man! I'll come to your fucking game."

The captain looks pointedly at him with a "shut up", but decides not to say anything else, seeing as John's one of their best strikers in spite of his short height. Greg gives him the what-the-fuck-was-that look.

He really works for football, he really does, tries to be the one who practices the most, tries to be the one who can score the most number of goals in any match. He never even lets it slip by mistake that he likes boys. In football, "faggotry", however brief and fleeting, is equivalent to crucifixion, and so John keeps his sexuality under covers, at least.

And it slowly begins to work. He's getting more and more popular, the guys have stopped calling him 'faggot' and he's tipped as the next captain, which is a long time away, but that's okay. At least he isn't excluded like always. Every day, John shows up in the school with the beginnings of permanent black circles and bags under his eyes. Jim and Irene fuss over him.

"Oh no," Irene quips, "Didn't we tell you? People with black circles under their eyes are not allowed to sit with us at lunch!"

Which, of course, introduces him to the world of cosmetics.

And then there's Sherlock, who drags him out for almost every small news on Jennifer Wilson, which every time ultimately turns out to be a walk around the foggy streets of London as Sherlock points out to John various landmarks around London, places he's never been into but he doesn't see the delight Sherlock feels at being the one to show them to John.

"So," Sherlock wraps himself in his coat as they exit the school together. Ionic equilibrium is something that John can't wrap his head around, especially when it comes to hydrolysis of salts, so Sherlock helps him with a couple of problems whenever he has time from his boxing practice. John's more than happy with the development. Tutoring sessions mean more time with Sherlock, apart from the little adventure that Sherlock had taken him around for, "I'll see you same time tomorrow maybe? I'm free—"

He stops short when he sees the look on John's face. John's stomach gives a sickly swirl. It's first match of the season next day, John's been practicing for this for weeks and even if he doesn't want to tell Sherlock that he might not to be able to stay behind for an extra half-an-hour next day, Sherlock already knows.

"Right, first match of the season, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Good luck, then."

"Thanks," John says indifferently, packing away his things into his bag. "But I doubt we'll need it." He pauses, looking at Sherlock. "Will you be coming?"

Sherlock looks uncharacteristically surprised by the question. "Oh. . . I don't know," he replies at length. John visibly deflates. Being an athlete himself, Sherlock is never really attracted by the prospect of actually coming to watch a game. There's no reason why this one would be any different.

The score is three-nil by half-time. The cheergirls are cheering as merrily as they can, but the absence of Jennifer Wilson is noticeable. John claps Greg on his back to congratulate on the goal as he returns to the bleachers, wiping away the sweat with a clean towel. He catches a momentary glimpse of a tall, slender figure behind the main bulk of the crowd and dark hair.

His heart gives an odd flutter inside of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In London, Sherlock says, in the morning the sun glints off the Thames like it's tipped with crystal.

John doesn't notice, but every time he drifts to Jennifer Wilson and her induced lithium poisoning, Sherlock huffs and changes the topic of conversation to anything that is vastly mundane by his standards.

As they sit in a bench and watch a steamer pass under the Tower Bridge raised at ninety degrees elevation, John sees the vast size difference between their hands.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock begins out of the blue, looking a little too nervous than what John is used to, and John's heart hammers as if he hasn't seen Sherlock in a week, "will you come with me. . .?"

John's heart rises up the crest of a wave. Sherlock is asking him out on a date. Obviously he considers him more than a friend. . .

". . . to the cheerleading championships, just to watch the endgame? It's right before the first basketball match of the season," He says in one breath, and John's stomach drops back into the pit when he processes it after a minute.

Sherlock's not asking him out on a date. He just wants to share with John the outcome of this whole affair because John's one the who's shared his adventures with him. John looks away from Sherlock's singularly expectant face. After all, if he knew what it meant to be to be asked out for the first basketball game of the season, he wouldn't have felt so disappointed.

Friends.

Two months. He could still do friends.

He wanted things to move faster, he wanted to follow his instincts but. . .

He looks down at the incomparable size of their hands, how Sherlock's big hands can consume his smaller ones whole. He's never trusted Sherlock more. He'll come. Sherlock came to the game when John asked him to. John would go with him.

"Sure," John nods. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the unsubtle bobbing of Sherlock's right index finger and a muscle twitching in Sherlock's left jaw. He can't deduce why. He wishes he could. Just like Sherlock does.

He doesn't care about anything else. Except for keeping Jim in good humour, since he's the one who's going to hook him up with Sherlock. He will do that. Jim's a good friend.

And he's never going to let Sherlock down. Never going to do something which lets Sherlock down or break his trust.

Rule two, Seb tells him: Popularity isn't about people liking you, it's about how much of an arse you can be and how people know that it's not worth confronting you in a conflict. It’s like having shiny armour that gives you protection to do what you want. John tries not to laugh at it when he sees that Seb's serious about it. Seb tells him that girls like that sort of stuff, for example, about this girl, Kitty Riley, who he is currently snogging in a closet every minute he gets.

"Gosh, you're so perverted," John lets it slip, and Seb looks shocked, at which John only says, "Don't get all sensitive, man!" picking up on Seb's classes easily. Like he said, he's easily subdued.

Kitty Riley comes up to Seb in the corridor and kisses him full on his mouth, and John sees her cheerleading outfit and her radiant face in spite of their beloved captain Jen Wilson still sick in a hospital ward.

"Alright, cap'n?" Seb gives her a mock salute, sliding a hand to the small of her back as Kitty kisses him again, "Congratulations." He points to the shiny "Captain" bracelet on her wrist, the bracelet that previously belonged to Jennifer Wilson. Oh, why won't she be happy, now that she's the captain. . .

"You're the captain, baby," she smiles against his lips, gently stroking his chin, "I'm going to rock everyone tonight."

Seb twirls her and suddenly dips her, startling both her and John alike, "You sure are." John rolls his eyes at the melodrama.

"Hey, John!" Ms Hooper greets him and a Sebastian Moran who abandons Kitty and tries to hide behind John in the corridor, "You'll be staying for the BBO special class, won't you?"

John brightens up at that. It would work wonders even for his test next week. "Yeah, thanks a lot."

Ms Hooper smiles and John smiles back.

"Oh, Kitty," she turns to her, "congratulations for the captain. Had it coming for a long time, didn't you?"

She smiles at Miss Hooper awkwardly, "Yeah, thanks."

"Good, make sure you rock the championships tonight. I'll be going too, just to cheer, not that I have any idea about basketball," she laughs nervously, which isn't echoed by her students except John. John realises that it isn't very cool to laugh around with a teacher, so he stops.

"So. . . you'll cheer for us?" John begins, starting to feel more under spotlight with a lanky Sebastian Moran hiding behind his short stature.

"Oh yeah, I'll be there with my boyfriend," she points it at someone behind her. John and Kitty crane their necks to see the hundred-year-old school janitor disappearing into a STAFF ONLY door. John and Kitty turn to stare weirdly at Ms. Hooper, who only jokes, "I'm joking! Sometimes. . . older people. . . make jokes?"

She doesn't get much response except for a strained laugh out of John.

"You can't sit for Olympiads. It's social suicide!" Comes a voice behind John, and Ms. Hooper peeps behind him. John pretends that he didn't hear that, but Ms. Hooper sure did.

"And you can come out now, Sebastian Moran. I need your fashion advice." Seb looks extremely sullen but he lets out a grunt anyway.

"Do you have some massage oil that's edible?"

Seb tries to think, and John frowns at the request and moreover at Seb's answer, "Erm. . . I can check—"

"Seb, I'm messing with you! . . . Okay, this has been sufficiently awkward, and I'll see you guys in class. John," she beckons to him, "from three thirty. Can you make it? I can give you a lift to the championships after that, if you want. Not that my car's. . . you know. . ."

"Sweet," John nods, smiling and trying not to think of Seb, who looks dismayed. Ms. Hooper does a toodles at them and goes away. Seb regains his former height.

"God, she really needs some tough boobjobs."

Kitty narrows her eyes and then she spots John.

"Oh hello!" She begins flirtatiously and Seb's even more dismayed, "John, right? Three continents Watson."

And before he can properly comprehend the meaning of "Three Continents Watson", it strikes John, who could've poisoned Jen Wilson, and he abandons Seb right there. Sherlock had told him that this was an inside job. He knows just who could've done it.

Sherlock's going to be so happy, he thinks, so happy to hear this. And John's delighted too. So delighted that he completely forgets about the special BBO class as he texts Sherlock about it all, giving him all the time in the world to stop the perpetrator from not getting what she wants.

"Are you sure this is going to work?"

It's hard to prove her guilt, Kitty Riley's, the star cheerleader as Irene informs John, and John in turn, informs Sherlock. Kitty is ambitious, she's talented, but she's not popular, she's overshadowed by Jennifer and even though it should be the other way round (as John thinks and believes but Sherlock scoffs, saying that talent isn't always everything as John believes it to be), Kitty Riley is extremely jealous of Jennifer Wilson. She is, as Irene mutters under her breath, 'a grotsky little beyotch'. John isn't sure what that's even supposed to mean. Jim does apparently, because he smiles a little when he hears it.

Sebastian Moran had told him that being popular is about being bitchy and more of a cock, not being likeable or talented. Kitty obviously didn't believe that.

"It will," Sherlock assures him deadpanned. Not that John doesn't trust him, in fact it's exactly the opposite. It's just that Sherlock doesn't. Or it feels like it, at least. But then, John thinks, Sherlock isn't overly demonstrative about most things. The only passion John has ever seen in him is the cranked-up Sherlock making his way into Jennifer Wilson's room.

"But there's no way to prove it," John tells him.

Sherlock smirks, a little endearing twitch of his lips. "She'll tell me that."

John frowns in confusion and the corners of his mouth curl downwards out of faint disappointment when Sherlock turns away to faux-cheer with everyone in the Cheerleading Championships right before the first basketball game of the season. There it is, Sherlock acute lack of trust in him. He never allows John into the plan fully, keeps him in the dark. John wants to believe that Sherlock can trust him as he always trusts Sherlock, that there was a place of equilibrium in their relationship. . . friendship.

No, he thinks, Sherlock trusts him, a lot more than he seems to. Otherwise, he never would've let him in at all.

Nevertheless, Sherlock is seated on the bleachers, with John beside him, jumping out of his skin with excitement. Even though there's serious work to be done, John pretends, just for the sake of pretending that Sherlock and he were on a date. The emcee announces the names of the various cheer girls from Marylemount, and to John's unconcealed surprise, he announces. . .

"And now, please put your hands together for the captain of the Westhaven cheer girls and their mascot, Jenny Wilson! Give 'em a big hand, people!"

While Sherlock scrunches his nose with distaste at the excessive American accent faked by the emcee, John's eyes go wide with astonishment. He instantly looks up to Sherlock beside him, looking for more explanation, for more guidance from the older boy, who clicks and winks at him.

"Told you," he smirks, and to John's immense surprise, he is cheering enthusiastically with the rest of the school people. There's just so many sides to Sherlock, he thinks. John doesn't understand what's happening, more so when he sees a girl of Jen Wilson's height and figure being lifted by an extremely surly Kitty Riley. John blinks. She does seem like Jen Wilson, even though her face his hidden by a mascot mask of a jumbo honey bee. He raises his eyes at Sherlock again. He's still cheering happily, but whether out of good wishes for the home cheerleading girls or because of his plan coming into fruition (supposedly), John doesn't know. All he knows is that he's never seen Sherlock like this, his eyes shining with jubilation and a faint blush on his cheeks, not even during the short adrenaline drive during the break-in into Jennifer Wilson's ward.

John sweeps his eyes over the entire basketball court. Even though football is the religion of the school, the entire bunch of students gear up for the first basketball game of the season. It's almost like a carnival. In real matches, the first basketball game of the season is where people go to watch the match with friends or girlfriends or boyfriends, to cheer for their teams, to bet on their teams, raise the odds, maybe eat some popcorn or crisps or hotdog while that happens. Coaches shout, strategies are made, cheergirls cheer, people punch each other in the face and girls catfight, and boys stop their jostling to scream at the fighting girls.

Something like: "Yeah! Take your top off!"

In Westhaven, the first basketball match of the season is the centre of entertainment and more importantly, the embodiment of scandals. If you attend it, you'll know everything that there's to know about who's cross with who, who's dating who and who's available to hook up with. And then the trending current affairs of what is going on in the school, almost like the annual school magazine. And of course, about what the Plastics are watching and what event they're following. The gathering is more important than the match itself. People standing next to each other are picked out randomly and are asked to kiss, just for the hell of it, irrespective of the gender of their partner or their sexual orientation. In fact, anyone can do anything and no one is allowed to say anything about it. If a hard-core girl turns out dressed like a slut to mindlessly hook up with guys, no other girls can say anything about it. And if it's your steady kissing someone else just because they're forced to under the infamous limelight, you're not allowed to say anything against it.

So, if someone asks you to come with you to the first basketball game of the season, it automatically implies that they're asking you out on a date and that they want to reduce the chances of you being kissed by someone else.

John doesn't know this, and Sherlock doesn't know that John doesn't know this. Had John known this, he would already have made his moves on Sherlock, Sherlock who is awaiting Kitty Riley's endgame while waiting for John to make a move with his breath stuck in his chest. Of course he would, after having taken such a bold step, he can't be doing all the work singlehandedly.

John stands beside him, oblivious. Their fingers are very close.

"But," he leans in towards Sherlock to shout into his ears over the deafening roars and cheers from the rest of the students on the bleachers, "Jennifer is—"

But Sherlock shushes him down. "Just watch the show, John!"

Sherlock calls him 'John' for the first time and an entire universe opens up between the two of them. He has never called him that, he's never called him by his name. John is suddenly very grateful that he is standing beside Sherlock. The crowd keeps on cheering as the limelight falls on another couple: Irene and Kate "Katie" Heron. John smiles, happy for Irene, when Kate leans in for it, not understanding that any moment, the spotlight might fall on them because Sherlock's the one standing beside him. As the crowds subside, John leans in to ask once again about what was happening.

"I thought Jen Wilson—" John begins, but Sherlock cuts in between.

"Yes."

John tries again, "I thought—"

"Yes."

It's like Sherlock knows everything, every single thing about what John's going to say to him. John takes a tad little longer than he usually does, so that he catches Sherlock unawares.

"I thought Jennifer Wilson's in hospital."

"She is. But that's not Jennifer Wilson."

The realisation strikes John's head, and he giggles delightedly at Sherlock's plan, "So, you're going to. . . you're going to make Kitty Riley confess in front of her, aren't you?"

He doesn't pause to look at Sherlock, whose eyes light up like a candle at John's childlike delight. He only hears the next set of words from his mouth.

"No one would've laughed at something like that," he says in a low voice.

"True," John looks down, still chuckling slightly. Sherlock looks so surprised at John's behaviour that John mistakes it for disapproval. He coughs uncomfortably, "Sorry."

"No it's. . ." an awkward clear of his throat, "fine, I suppose."

"So, erm. . . who's she? The one who's playing Jen Wilson?"

"Some girl who has a crush on you," Sherlock sighs, trying to look bored, which is betrayed almost instantly by the unsubtle bobbing of his right thigh against John's leg. John moves his leg away from his uncomfortably, thinking that Sherlock might be uncomfortable. He notices that although Sherlock is a little jittery when it came to revealing to John a girl who supposedly has a crush on him, he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Sorry, crush on me?" John's eyes widen when he takes in the full meaning of Sherlock's words. Sherlock leers at him his wolf-bright smile.

"Oh, didn't you know? Three continents Watson?" Sherlock sounds like he's kidding, except that he's not. Sherlock isn't the sort to be joking.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, "Last time I checked, I was a Jew, and now I'm a three-continents-whatever?"

Sherlock sniggers, but otherwise doesn't say anything else. John doesn't say anything too. Till the what seems like aerobics and a lot of mind-blowing gymnastics goes on down there, John runs his eyes over the place. There are still couples being picked out to kiss, somewhere over, Greg is trying his best to sell corn dogs and cheer for the other school's team. John has no idea where Mycroft is. Probably eating lots of dessert behind the bleachers.

He takes one look at Sherlock. If he told him this bit about Mycroft, he'd probably agree.

"So. . ." John asks at length as Greg gives up on his determination to sell all the corn dogs, "How did you convince her?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the girls, and then looks at John to stare at him disconcertingly. John manages to look up at him challengingly and Sherlock gives up first, "Well, I did spread around the rumour that you found cheergirls hot in her vicinity. Took me less than a minute to act as a guide to make her look like Jenny Wilson."

John doesn't know whether to scoff at Sherlock's method to achieve the end goal, or the easy way in which Sherlock had managed that.

Instead he goes with an incredulous, "You managed that in a couple of hours?"

"It isn't exactly rocket science." Sherlock shrugs. John cocks an eyebrow, feeling a little daring to venture further.

"So. . . you think I find cheergirls hot?"

Sherlock turns to look at him, "Do you?" And John wishes so much that he could see, could read what Sherlock is thinking. Is he surprised? Is he not surprised? Does it make any difference to him? Or does it not? Sherlock's face is so artfully blank that John wants to ask him, what he's thinking. Whether he's also wishing for the limelight to fall on them, just so that he gets an excuse to. . .

"I like guys," John blurts out, but that revelation doesn't make any difference to Sherlock at all.

"I know." It's a smirk that John is rewarded with for his honesty. But Sherlock's face is still so blank, so bloody blank that it makes John's position even more intimidating.

The crowd gives a huge cheer which startles John and Sherlock out of their brief moment alike. The cheerleaders have finished their performance and it will be a short break after which the match will start. Sherlock touches John on the wrist as a signal and they both steal away from the bleachers towards the changing rooms.

"I've told her—the one who's got a crush on you—" and Sherlock's jaw twitches ever so slightly, "to let us inside from the back. She won't take her mascot mask off. We'll be just in time for their little get-together to come into fruition."

Sure enough, the back door to the green room's open, and John sneaks in after Sherlock with the strange calm that adrenaline usually brings inside him. Sherlock presses his chest flat against a door, listening intently, his eyes flickering. John tries to listen too, after which it isn't needed as the voices come from the other side of the door.

"Not now," Sherlock whispers, warning him, and John pulls back obediently, his eyes flicking from Sherlock to the door and back to Sherlock again, "When I give you the signal, escort the girl out. I don't want Kitty to know who she is, lest she might be poisoned too."

John nods. So Sherlock isn't as dismissive to her as he originally thought. He is thankful for that.

"So, you're here," Kitty's quiet voice comes out. "You got well, I see."

"Of course I had to, Kitty!" The unknown girl drawls much like Jennifer, "I mean, I can't help it that I'm popular and so many people wished well for me. You did too, didn't you?"

"Of course, Jenny," Kitty suddenly becomes all happy and cheerful, which at this point, John can tell that it is criminally fake.

"Stop being so stupid, Kitty!" She replies happily, "You know what you did, and I forgive you for it."

John looks up at Sherlock in amazement. The dialogues are Sherlock's, without a single doubt. To John, Sherlock's invincible. The set-up simply proves it.

Kitty's voice comes out as calm but bordering on panicky, "How do you mean?"

"Oh please!" Unknown-girl laughs shrilly, much like Jennifer. John can't believe how much of an impression she is making on him despite the fact that he knows that she's not Jennifer Wilson, "Jeff Hope saw you steal my watch and put it in your locker. When my doctors told me about lithium poisoning, I knew."

"What watch?" Kitty scoffs, "You've gone mad—"

"But it's okay, Kitty. That's what popular girls do. They forgive others, right? I'll forget about the fact that you poisoned me so that you could be the captain—"

"Shut up!" Kitty sounds like she's gritting through clenched teeth.

"I understand that you wanted to be a captain by poisoning your poor old Jenny. It's okay, Kitty. I forgive you—"

"I don't need your forgiveness," Kitty's shrill voice sends the bated breath back into John's lungs. He has been right. Sherlock is positively glowing with triumph when Kitty hits her breaking point, "You don't deserve to be the captain. I'm more talented. I should be the captain. You weren't supposed to get well till tomorrow."

"Now," Sherlock hisses, and John and he push in through that door to confront Kitty. Kitty's eyes go wide as she stumbles backwards.

"You bitch!" She squeals at the girl who's playing Jenny Wilson, looking like a panther about to attack its prey, "You set me up!"

At Sherlock's signal, John awkwardly catches hold of the girl's arm and leads her out. It's awkward, knowing that the guy you fancy is inside while the girl who has a crush on you is the one you're leading out. As he exits with her, she tears off her mask.

"Hi, John!" It's the same cheesy girl, Sarah. John groans inwardly.

"Erm. . . hi. Do you have the tape?"

She nods, smiling diabetically, and hands him the tape which had been recording Kitty's confession. Sarah approaches him as he tucks it into his pocket, "Want me to pop your cherry?"

John lets go of her. "Yeah, I'll be right back."

And he dashes inside to Sherlock.

Inside, Sherlock has secured all the exits after telling Kitty that if she attempts some stunt, he has her confession of poisoning Jenny Wilson. Kitty sits down on a stool, seemingly broken, angry and defeated.

"So," Sherlock crosses his arms, "We know that it wasn't your idea. Your grades are consistently C. I checked. Who told you how you could dismantle her watch and break the battery to mix the lithium with her food?"

She turns away, refusing to say anything. Sherlock knows it's time to push her harder. "We will send this to the police. My brother's friend's father is a detective at Scotland Yard. If they find out, you'll be expelled and sent into juvie."

John frowns. He never knew that Greg's father was a detective.

"She always hogs the limelight," Kitty replies tearfully, "Jennifer. I hate her. I hate her. I wish she died."

"Who gave you the ideas?" Sherlock asks again, but Kitty simply shakes her head.

"I don't know."

John scoffs, and she increases the volume of her voice, "Really, I don't know." Her sobs increase in volume when Sherlock reaches inside the pocket of his jeans and produces a Fastrack watch in his handkerchief, "You can't lie, Kitty. You know now you can't."

Kitty looks torn. Tearfully, she stands up and fishes into her purse for something, during which Sherlock leans in to explain John, "When I was in Jen's ward, she woke up and I tried to convince her that she had been poisoned by something that contained lithium. Batteries etc. . . the button-battery operated ones, and she informed me that her watch had gone missing some days ago from her locker. . . Hence, someone close to her and who knew her personally. When you told me about Kitty, I simply had to break into her locker, and there was the watch."

John's speechless. That is, until, he sees Sherlock expectant face and supplies, "That's amazing!"

Sherlock mutters something unintelligible and turns away when Kitty approaches them, "This was in my locker."

She hands Sherlock a note, on which there's a spidery scribble, much like Sherlock's own handwriting

Lithium-poisoning. Button-battery powered watch. Two weeks.

John turns to Sherlock, peering at the scrap of paper incredulously, and then turns to Kitty, "If you're making this up—"

"I swear to God!" She cries, "please don't hand me to the police. My mum and dad. . . they'll hate me forever. Seb will hate me forever. My sister will hate me forever."

Sherlock straightens with a cough, "On one condition?"

Kitty laps at it as a cat does at cream, "I'll do anything, I swear!"

John gazes at Sherlock, waiting for the climax of this whole adventure as Sherlock lets out his words, "If you people win the championships, then you'll have to say these words exactly. . ."

"You think she's going to do it?"

Sherlock is with John back on the stands, with John still waiting to be picked up by the infamous spotlight to be made to kiss him. They make themselves comfortable in a couple of force-fed corndogs and hotdogs. Sherlock scrunches up his face at the thought of food, but accepts it begrudgingly.

"I scared her pretty well. She'd be have to be an idiot not to."

The game's over in a couple of minutes, with Westhaven winning, and John hears a familiar voice behind him, "John!" He turns, surprised to see Jim in a flattering leather jacket and then remembers why he's here. Barely able to keep his happiness, John traps Jim into an embrace, not caring how unmanly it is. Today will be the day Jim sets Sherlock up with him, the day he'll get to kiss that plush mouth of his. Jim returns the hug, as if equally enthusiastic about it. Jim's such a good friend, John thinks, not bothering to process that Jim's hands are going lower, slightly lower than normal, past the small of his back. He parts from him with a cough.

When Jim releases him, he notices that Sherlock's demeanour has completely changed. The carefree, awesome, daring youth is gone and is replaced by the calculating and severe-looking teenager. John feels a little bit of panic. What if Sherlock doesn't like him back? After all, he's not much compared to Jim Moriarty.

"So, enjoy the game?" Jim puts his arm around John, and John can hear a little whine leave Sherlock's throat. Ignoring it, he says, "Yeah. We had lots of. . . fun. And you?"

"Just the same old, you know. Irene's completely mad about her patch-up with Katie Heron and Seb's trying to go after that stupid girl. . . what was her name again?"

"Kitty."

"Right, Kitty. I don't know what Seb sees in her, ugh! It's like she dipped herself in boy-repellent or something."

John tries not to frown at that. Kitty would've been alright, if she had not tried to poison Jenny Wilson, regardless of how heartless the latter is. They watch the stadium getting empty. They watch the emcee declare that the Westhaven cheergirls are the winners to the Cheerleading championships 2014. They watch Kitty take the trophy and then they watch Kitty acknowledging bitterly how good Jennifer was as a captain and how all their success was dedicated to her.

John can't help but snort at that. That was eventful. With his about-to-be-boyfriend on his left and his best friend ever on his right, life couldn't have been any better.

Because it only becomes worse when Jim rises without telling Sherlock anything and John's a little surprised. Why did Jim come there after all, if he had nothing to say to Sherlock.

It becomes clearer to John when Sherlock follows Jim, a little too hurriedly. John's heart is pounding, pounding against his ribs like the tempest. It's the most marvellous feeling in the world. He doesn't want to miss a moment of it, and after sometime, after going over whether to go or whether not to go a million times in his head, he stands up to go behind the bleachers, because that's where Jim and Sherlock must have gone into.

He ducks behind the stands as he sees Jim and Sherlock talking.

And his world stops spinning when he sees Sherlock tilt Jim's chin up to capture his lips in a passionate snog.

Chapter Text

"Stop it, Mycroft!" Greg scolds bemoaning, actually meaning his words but not trying hard enough to stop Mycroft, never enough because the latter is way too awe-inspiring. He just wraps his fingers around Mycroft's wrist and tries to push him away.

"Just admit it, you like it too, and save us the effort." Mycroft pants, his face red.

"Don't you do this to me. Ah-stop, God!" Greg squeals.

"Oh, sorry mum. Want to cook my breakfast and make my bed too?"

"Cock!" Greg makes another attempt at snatching the muffin out of Mycroft's grip. "That's the same dialogue you use all the time. Where'd you pick that up, the Eastenders or something?"

Mycroft sits back up upon spotting the supply of corn dogs on the dining table. They're in Mycroft's Montague Street flat, a way to avoid Income Tax Officers from running inquiries about his parents' wealth. It's a small one-bedroom flat with a small TV, no heating or air-conditioning except for a single table fan, and an old couch with all its springs sticking out, and some covers and pillows in case Greg wants to shut that idiot's mouth up. It's the place where Greg and Mycroft usually see John in away from school. Their bolthole.

"Just stick with being the American wannabe you are," he snaps. "You don't know the first thing about Eastenders."

"As if you do," he simpers, and sits back up, straightening himself on the sofa and trying to push Mycroft away from the corn dogs as Mycroft makes a beeline for them. Greg ends on top of Mycroft on the floor as they jostle, even if Mycroft hates jostling and that's exactly why Greg does it, before he pulls himself off him and lies down beside Mycroft on the floor, both of them staring at the ceiling.

"I know you like scolding me, Greg. Just admit it and save us the effort."

"Shut up! . . . I didn't make good sales today," he says faux-tearfully, "at the match, I mean."

"More's the pity," Mycroft says drily. "I get more. I'll even pay you, Greg. Just one more."

"Go and fuck yourself and maybe I'll consider."

"You know that's not possible, Greg—"

Greg rolls his eyes. "Just shut up for once, y'know."

And Mycroft really shuts up. They lie beside each other, still staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, they wonder. Are they friends? Yes. Best friends? Definitely. More than that? There's no doubt. Boyfriends? No, Greg is not gay, and Mycroft is work/brainstorm-sexual. Hetero-life partners? Maybe. That comes closest.

"Did you know that Sherlock fancies John?"

Greg splutters. The calm way in which Mycroft said that is almost too comical, "What?"

"I know, it's crazy," Mycroft says dreamily. "He's an incurably lazy devil, his mum complains to my mum all the time about how she couldn't get to make him go to school or even socialise and other nonsense at times. Sherlock has become quite the compliant son."

"So?"

"So. . . Sherlock's behaviour is unprecedented. He goes to school regularly, he's out till eight or nine—"

"It could be just Sherlock and Jim hooking up again," Greg says with distaste. "Bastard."

Mycroft looks at him angrily, maybe at having been interrupted, or maybe because he called his brother "bastard".

"Sherlock never bothered to go to Jim. It's Jim who used to come over. Since the summer, Sherlock's mother came back from the overseas trip and Sherlock no longer had the house to himself. That plus them being on-again-and-off-again had them breaking up before school began."

Greg shook his head. "What does this have to do with John?"

"Well. . . John is the only new student this year. . . so Sherlock is making extra effort to see him at school every day. And the days when John tells us that he's mostly hanging out with Jim and gang are usually the days where Sherlock returns late. Too much to be a coincidence."

"Right, the universe is rarely too lazy," Greg snorts.

"It can be," Mycroft says smugly. "I just know how to spot the difference between a coincidence and a planned encounter."

"Christ, I thought John was—!"

"Straight? Well, apparently he isn't. He's got everybody fooled well."

"Aw, young love," Greg moans softly.

"Too gay to function," Mycroft hisses, and Greg throws him a light punch.

"Mycroft?" Greg calls out after some time, and Mycroft turns to him. Their faces are way too close to be appropriate for two guys.

"What?"

"You know, we should get married."

Mycroft reels back in horror. "What?!"

"I mean," Greg continues seriously, undeterred, "you're not going to get a girl, and—"

"What do you mean I'm not going to get a girl?" Mycroft demands, and Greg chuckles.

"Jeez, Mycroft. Relax, I was just kidding! Anyway, you're not going to get a girl, and I'm too gay to function—"

Mycroft sits up in alarm. "Did you catch brain fever? Did you eat oats and carrots for breakfast, Greg?" At this point, Greg rolls his eyes as Mycroft goes on, "Did you finally dig out the 1969 Sears catalogue that you were looking for? Because you kind of. . . sound. . . insane!"

"Seriously, Mycroft," Greg yawns. "You're such a drama queen. I'm asking you to marry me and you're being such an utter prick to me—"

At this point, there's a scuffling in the door. As Mycroft and Greg turn to look at the doorknob, which turns, and a very pale-looking John Watson enters and shuts the door behind him.

"Oh, John," Greg examines him casually. "You ruined our little romantic moment. Mycroft and I were making out."

Mycroft stands up, giving out a short laugh and kicks him in the side. Greg groans and tries to grab Mycroft's leg so that the taller boy falls down on the ground, maybe cause a mini-earthquake.

"Yeah, I can definitely smell the testosterone in the air," John's voice is broken, hoarse; only thinly veiled by a facade of dry humour. His face is too ashen to properly regard Greg's words. Greg and Mycroft register this, but they don't say anything.

"What was. . . the. . .uh, score?" Greg asked, sitting up cross-legged and keeping a fixed eye at John's small figure. John is looking down at the floor stubbornly, his fists clenched, his lips pursed and a jump in his jaw. His breathing is steady, almost precise to be used as a metronome.

"27/20," he replies, still not meeting their gazes. In just a few seconds, the easy careless demeanour that Mycroft and Greg had was dissolved by John's presence; the tension so thick that it could be cut with a knife.

"Oh right," Greg stands up. "You. . . want some corndogs?"

John looks up at him and blinks, as if looking at him with the obviously implied Why're you being so stupid? It is definitely a scary sight. John is angry. They've always seen the sweet homeschooled boy John till now, not an angry John.

He nods stiffly. "Sure."

Mycroft practically moves away to give John some space to sit on the sofa beside him. John's grip on the key to the flat looks so iron-hard that they fear that the keys might snap off any time.

Eventually, Greg looks across for a clean piece of cloth and serves the corn dogs on them, even though it's awfully unhygienic and Mycroft doesn't say anything because he's too busy assessing John. "Sorry mate, they've all gone cold, there's no oven here—"

"Jim is back together with Sherlock," John announces, barely caring about the cold corn dogs in front of him. Mycroft and Greg share a glance, each more confused than the other. Telepathically, they decide that Mycroft should speak first.

"Oh, so. . ." Mycroft nods, "you are against that—?"

He stops abruptly when Greg gives him a look of you're not handling this properly and Mycroft gives him a look back of how can I? I'm not the one who's gay!

Greg rolls his eyes and sits between Mycroft and John, trying not to touch either of them. He gives a start when John begins to speak again.

"Why would he do that? I thought he. . ." there's a hoarseness to his voice, the sort neither Greg nor Mycroft have ever heard. "I mean. . ."

"Jim?" Greg resists a scoff, "I think I should expect something like that."

John gives him a look that sends Greg almost reeling backwards into Mycroft.

"Sher—Sherlock," John is still shocked by the horrible scene in front of him; Sherlock arching his back and kissing Jim, all while encircling his waist in his grip, "why would he do that. . . ?"

"Wait, what?!" Mycroft and Greg echo together. Jim getting back together with Sherlock was believable, but Sherlock getting back with Jim when he had asked John out for the first basketball match of the season. . . Greg turns to look at Mycroft and he is greeted with another equally, or possibly more, shocked face. Maybe more shocked. Mycroft is doing double duty of being shocked at the entire thing and also at the shock of being wrong about Sherlock.

"No. . . no," Greg shakes his head, "mate, you must have seen something wrong—"

"I saw Sherlock kissing Jim. Jim wasn't even moving. Tell me what am I going to make of that?"

Greg shrugs. "But it's hard to believe—"

"No," Mycroft shakes his head, "Sherlock can't do this; it's got to be Jim. I know my brother—"

"That he liked me over Jim Moriarty?" John scoffs, his lips tipping upwards in a humourless smile, "forget it. That can never happen."

Greg is almost about to tell John all about Sherlock's attraction to him as they see it, but Mycroft sees through it and restrains him with a pull at his shoulder. Greg subdues as Mycroft takes over, "You are wrong, John. Jim Moriarty is a wicked, manipulative, sadistic bastard. My brother definitely isn't that. And only a wicked, manipulative, sadistic bastard can do what Jim did to you."

"No, no," John shakes his head obstinately, "I clearly saw it. Jim did nothing, he's a good friend. It was Sherlock who. . ." at this point, John gulps, as if even saying that is too painful for him, "I'm sorry, I can't—"

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Mycroft insists, trying to look sympathetic while gritting his teeth at John's foolish stubbornness. He can feel Greg's disapproving eyes at him but he chooses to ignore that. "Jim's a life-ruiner. He ruins other people's lives. That's why he did this to you. He gets fun out of it."

"But I saw—"

"No, you saw what Jim wanted you to see. Sometimes our eyes deceive us, John. Believe me."

John looks at Mycroft confusedly, trying to accommodate in his imagination this new explanation; that it wasn't Sherlock's doing. That this was all Jim's doing. Mycroft can see that the gears in John's mind are turning. Turning against Jim Moriarty. Finally.

"Don't you believe your friends?" He adds a last sentence to draw the magnetic influence of John's loyalty and fascination towards the Plastics away from John, implying heavy in it who John's real friends were. Greg gives a loud disapproving cough.

"Jim did this?" John seeks confirmation. Mycroft nods, and John looks towards Greg, who shakes his head dubiously upon receiving a nudge in the ribs from Mycroft.

"He's not going to get away with it, yes? We're going to do something!"

John looks up at him, his voice and eyes weak but he desperately tries to hide it, "We are?"

Before Mycroft can say anything like yes we are, Greg tugs at his shirt sleeve, "Just one moment, John. We need to talk."

John shrugs and resumes to play that scene in his mind for the hundredth time despite himself. Greg drags Mycroft into the bedroom and closes the door behind him.

"What, Greg?" Mycroft is impatient and irritated at the hindrance.

"Are you out of your mind, Mycroft?!" He stares at him, shocked, "Why'd you do that? He said that—"

"That Sherlock kissed Jim. That might be true, but I don't care. This is the first time we got John against Jim—"

"You got him against Jim, not us," Greg pushes him away, "Jeez, Mycroft! I—I never knew that you'd be like this. That poor sod is hurt, you need to. . . comfort him or something as friends—!"

"Shhh. . . he'll hear you. He's hurt, and I need to turn all of that loyalty into hatred, Greg, before he gets over Sherlock," Mycroft waves his arms around incredulously, as if he can't believe that Greg is being such a moral drama queen at all of it. "This is our best chance!"

"Are you crazy?! You're fucking with his mind, and he's going to be all revenging. All this hanging-out-with-the-Plastics stuff was just a joke, so that we could laugh about what all dumb stuff that Moran said or did—"

"It was never a joke," Mycroft growls. "After all that he did to us in middle school, Greg. Have you forgotten all that?"

Greg stares at Mycroft, his arms akimbo. Then he shakes his head, a humourless smile playing along his lips, "No. This is not going to work on me. You might be able to emotional-blackmail John, whatever, but not me. It never works with me. You know that, My."

"Exactly. So you need to think with your brains," at this point, Mycroft puts his arm around his shoulders. "Don't you want to see Jim burn down to the ground?"

Greg looks shocked, "Jeez, My! Don't you creep me with all that fairy-talk! Look, I'd sell my house to see Jim's popularity gone, but none of this burning stuff, alright? I'm allergic to fire, as it is."

Mycroft cocks his eyebrow. "You're allergic to fire?"

"I'm allergic to burnt sausages! That and fire are the same thing!"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, "Listen, fate's given us a chance and we can have it easy. Or you can have it ten years later. So, I need to know. Are you in this?"

Greg shakes his head, "Look, bro. I know you're right, someone needs to give Moriarty a good kick to the shin, but. . . John is our friend. You're manipulating him, and it's not right. . . Would you do this to me, if—if my girlfriend went and kissed Jim, would you comfort me or would you—?"

"Hypothetical situation," Mycroft chants, "you need to have a girlfriend first, which you won't. And secondly, your girlfriend will probably know that Jim's gay. Every step that he takes screams gay, gay, gay so it's fairly obvious. Thirdly, I won't have to turn you against Jim, you're already against him."

Greg exhales an all-suffering sigh, "You know what, you do it. I can't do this, he's my friend—"

"Oh," Mycroft looks at him suspiciously, "so he's a better friend than I am? Good to know."

"You're a cock too," Greg sits down on the bed, "and I'm no conspirator. I know what you're thinking, and I'm not set out for revenge or something. I'm just doing this because it needs to be done."

Mycroft stares at him for some disbelieving moments, "What are you, some badass social worker?"

"But. . . it's. . . wrong," he says uncertainly, "I mean, I wouldn't do this to you, Mycroft."

"Look, if God can afford to be wrong and send Jim Moriarty on earth, then even I'm insured do "wrong" things! You want this, Greg. You're just too blind to see it!"

Greg looks at him suspiciously, "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"Grr, I was just making a point!" Mycroft growls, irritated, and grabs Greg by his elbow, "Let's go out now, John will think something's up."

Greg shrugs and lets himself be pulled by Mycroft's iron grip. When they're in the drawing room, John looks much fresh, "Erm . . . sorry guys, I just used the loo while you were talking, is that. . .?"

"Course it's fine," Mycroft says, and plops down on the sofa with a thud. The springs give a creak, and Greg decides that it might be much healthier for the battered sofa if he kept standing.

"John, are you sure about this?" Greg asks him, wishing internally that he said 'no', because this was getting a little too serious for his liking. Laughing is okay, letting about Jim's even secrets is sort of fine, but this, this is revenge for something that he really couldn't hold Jim accountable for. Sherlock had screwed up. Maybe it was something that Jim had said or done, but then it was just hypothesis. Sherlock wasn't exactly a saint for having gone out with Jim in the first place.

"Yeah, just remind me how badly you want to destroy Jim again?" John smirks. Mycroft and Greg smirk back.

"Now, like we said, James Moriarty is an evil dictator," Mycroft says, trying to ignore Greg, who has found a toy walkie-talkie from back when Mycroft and he were in middle school and when they used to play with it. He takes it in his hand, feeling like a spy. John glances at him before turning his attention back to Mycroft.

"And how do you overthrow a dictator?"

"You cut off his resources."

"Right," Mycroft nods at Greg. "Jim would be a complete nobody in the school if not for, first—" he writes down on a piece of paper in block letters Sherlock Holmes, "his stupid boyfriend Sherlock Holmes, sorry John. And also, his good looks that can charm anyone at the first glance," he writes that down in block letters as well.

"And of course, we can't forget his ignorant band of loyal followers," he writes down 'Adler and Moran'.

"Now John," Greg pipes in, "if we want this to work, you'll have to hang out with them like nothing's wrong. Can you manage it?"

"I think I can—"

"You're going to have to, John," said Greg, leaning over so that John could see him, muttering into his walkie-talkie, "Roger and out." Mycroft frowns and turns to him, only to let out an exaggerated all-suffering sigh. Greg looks busted at his expression, which gradually softens.

"They think you're homeschooled, which you are," Mycroft begins, "but what they basically think is that they can mould you into themselves because you basically don't know anything about what entails secondary school. They like that part of you. So continue acting like a virgin, and you're good."

"I act like a virgin?" John asks, a little disgusted. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Keep calm and be friends with Jim Moriarty. It might be a little slow at first, but we'll get there eventually."

"You'll have to be careful, John," Mycroft admonishes, "I don't really know about Irene, but Jim's smart, if you go by those comebacks. If he can do this to you, then he can do almost anything."

John nods, understanding. "I think I can do it."

Mycroft smirks. "Good, let's, as my friend Greg puts it, let's rock those bitches—"

I wouldn't say that," Greg interrupts, "Jim's a guy."

"Would you let me finish?" Mycroft seethes through clenched teeth. John laughs, only a bit brokenly.

When John is finally gone, Mycroft notices that Greg has been staring at him all the time. Trying to ignore his eyes, he sets down to correct the television again. There's disconcertingly pin drop silence for more than five minutes. Finally, Greg shifts to his feet and plops down on the sofa.

"Do you think that Sherlock might have. . . you know, kissed Jim?"

"Dunno," Mycroft replies absentmindedly. "My brother can be very. . . unpredictable, sometimes."

"You said he liked John," he stuffs a cold corn dog into his mouth. The batter is too thin, and he tries not to puke it out, "Sherlock might be a bastard, but . . . he's your brother, he won't do something like that."

"At any rate," Mycroft turns to smirk at him, "good for us."

Greg doesn't returnt that smirk. "About that. . . yeah. . . You know, what you did, it wasn't right. You always said that sentiment shouldn't get the better of you and that you should always do what was the right thing. Your hatred of Jim got the better of you today."

"I can hardly blame myself," Mycroft mutters, "I'm a teenager with hormones."

"That's not an excuse," Greg shakes his head. "I mean, the Burn Book and outing whatever was there in it was the limit, not what you're planning to do."

"Stop sounding like such a conspiracy theorist! I'm not going to bomb his house, am I?"

"I'm slightly worried that you might." Greg says. When Mycroft looks up at him, he's surprised to see that Greg is serious about whatever rubbish he's saying.

"I can't believe you're the one who's saying this, Greg," Mycroft stands up and Greg tries not to look intimidated at Mycroft's posture. "He ruined my childhood. He ruined your life! You remember that pool party, don't you? Or did you hit your head selling corn dogs?"

"Stop treating me like an idiot! I know it, alright? But just because he ruined ours doesn't give us the right to ruin his—"

"So—so, that's it, then? All these years, I thought you were my friend, not Jim's. You're still like him—"

"I'll fucking rip your head off if you ever say that again, Mycroft," Greg said quietly, "I'm warning you."

"Yeah," Mycroft sniggers, and it only enrages Greg even more. "If you can figure out which end is which."

"Don't do that, Mycroft. You think you can blackmail me? I always bear your jokes quietly. I was the one who stood up for you against Jim when he was my friend! And all the time, I thought I was hanging out with a guy who didn't give a shit about the rest of the world. Not. . . you. . . You're just like a clone of Jim, you know."

"Maybe that's your fault," Mycroft counters back, "that you always manage to attract guys that you can turn into jerks later."

Mycroft stops when that comes out of his mouth. Greg exudes quiet fury as he clenches his fists by his sides. The momentary victory of the argument is enough to stave off the feeling that he has done permanent damage to his and Greg's four year old friendship.

"Fuck off," he says quietly before the door shuts in Mycroft's face, and the full realisation of what had transpired hits Mycroft like facepalm.