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Chapter Text

I'd never given much thought to how I would would go. Dying - though I'd had reason enough recently  Even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

I glared at Moriarty my breath short within my chest; as he cross the mirrored room I swore the dark empty eyes glittered back the weak light coming in from the high windows, reflecting nothing but madness.

It would be  a good way to die, in the place of someone you loved, wouldn’t it? Heroic, even. That ought to count in the end.

If I had never moved to Framlingham, I wouldn't be facing Moriarty now. Maybe ever.

But I wouldn't allow myself to regret this. Not one moment of it.

When life offers you something so far beyond anything you have ever imagined, it's not right to forget it was all worth it when it comes to an end.

The spider smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me.

In Suffolk, northwest of London, a small town named Framlingham exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains in this small village more than any other place in the entire UK it seemed. It was from this this sleepy little place, constantly shaded with cloud cover that my mum left with me when I was only a small child. It was in this little slice of quiet, idyllic, pastoral hollow that I'd been sent by my mum every summer for one month until I was thirteen. That was the year I told her I couldn’t stand the cold myself anymore; so the past four summers, my da, Greg, spent his holiday in Sydney with us for two weeks instead.

Now, I exiled myself to Framlingham. I was willing if it helped Harry and Mum. My mum looks like me, except with long tight curly hair and laugh lines. I realised then how often I would miss her. I felt panic as I stared at her wide, ocean blue eyes. How could I leave my mum by herself? She had Harry, so things would get taken care of some of the time. Most of the time if Clara moved in as well. If not, she knew how to call out for take-away with the best of them. I found myself hoping that Harry really sat down with her again about how to use Google maps on her mobile.

I loved Sydney. I loved the heat and the weekends by the water. I loved the huge city we lived in.

But I loved them too, and this was the best option for all of us.

"It’ll be good, Mum," I lied to her. I hated lying. but I couldn’t stay either.

"Tell Greg I said hello. He’s meeting you at Heathrow."

"I know."

"We’ll see you at summer," she insisted. "Come sooner if you want - maybe Christmas."

"Mum... please," I urged. “It’ll be fine.”

I might have said something different if I knew those would be the last words I ever spoke to my mum in person; what is the saying about perfect vision in hindsight?

It's a nearly 24 hour flight from Sydney to London and another hour and a bit flight to Ipswich, and then another hour drive to Framlingham. The flight didn’t bother me; it was the drive the rest of the way with my father, Greg Lestrade, that had me nervous.

Greg had really been really gracious about the whole thing. Happy even that I was coming to live with him in any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registered for the local secondary, and was going to help me get a car so that I could still have a little freedom if I needed. That was a rare treat, most certainly something that wasn’t needed in Sydney or that we could have afforded at any rate. I still needed to get my uniform and I’d find out my house once I got in. At least it was a day-school, so I’d be home in the evenings to look for part-time work. That was if my leg let me. It hadn’t been too long ago that I’d been in a cast, then in PT. At least I wasn’t on crutches or cane anymore.

Greg was excited, but I wondered how living with him would be. Neither of us was very talkative, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. Maybe books? History? Crime scenes? He seemed to enjoy regaling me with stories, perhaps I could worm my way into sitting down with his pathologist at some point.

When I landed at Heathrow, it was raining. Typical.  It wasn’t an omen; just unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbye to the warmth of most of my childhood half-way around the world, and I knew it. I had moved to England for God’s sake. Greg was waiting for me as mum had said he would be, a large smile on his face and an open armed hug waiting when I stumbled my way close enough under the weight of my bags without a trolley. It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be.

Greg is Detective Inspector Lestrade to the people of Framlingham. I knew that. There he was straight-faced and hard edged when on a case, but off, he liked to visit with the other P.C.’s and go to the local. Keep in touch with the others in the force. He was admired. I just hoped I wouldn't be branded a pariah by the other students because of who Greg was.

"It's good to see you, Johnny," he smiled as he automatically grabbed one of my bags. "You haven't changed much. How's Ella?"

"Mum is fine. " I wasn't allowed to call him Greg to his face. Respect and all. I understood.

“Traveling light?” Greg asked, looking mildly concerned. Most of my Sydney clothes were completely wrong for Framlingham. Mum and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but even then ‘winter’ in Sydney was much milder than here.

“Well, I’ll be getting a few uniforms for school, and I wanted to wait to get things.” Greg looked at me as if he knew it was a lie. It only sort-of was.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced, changing the subject.

It was an olive branch and I knew to take it. "What kind of car?"

"Well, it's a classic actually. A Mini."

"Where did you find it?"

"Do you remember Moran out by Minsmere?" Minsmere is a nature reserve on the coast. I did remember that much.

"No, I do remember the place though."

"He used to go fishing with us during summer," Greg prompted. "Well, Moran's in a wheelchair now," Greg continued, "so he can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell it cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question he had been waiting for.

"Well, he has done a lot of work on the engine restoration-”

I found myself hoping this might actually be just a little cool; that maybe Greg had thought about the purchase."When did he buy it?"

"His da bought it in 1968, I think."

"So it was his father’s?"

"Yea, but he’s restored it, well mostly, like I said.” Greg peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression. "Really, John, the thing runs great."

"You didn't need to do this, Dad."

"I don't mind,”  He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. “I want you to be happy here."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that my being happy in Framlingham is an impossibility.

"You're welcome," he said and lit up brightly with one of his warm smiles.

We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, a typically British conversation until we stared out the windows and I watched the scenery pass by. It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green; the meadows were like the ocean I already missed. They stretched forever broken by trees or small farms. A village. Idyllic.

Eventually  we made it to Framlingham. He still lived in the small two storey house that he'd bought with my mum in the early days of their marriage. There, parked in the drive by the house was my Mini out on display. It was a faded green color, with rounded white fenders and white hubcaps. To my surprise, I loved it.

"Wow, Dad- um, thanks. I-" My voice cracked a bit as the welcoming feeling became a bit much.

"I'm glad you like it," Greg said gruffly. “Come on, let’s get your bags from the boot.”

It only took one trip to get all of them upstairs. I was in my childhood room, nursery really, that faced out over the garden. The dark well worn and polished wooden floor, the green walls and peaked ceiling; these were all a part of my childhood visits. Now my home.

He’s exchanged the narrow single I had had in my youth for The desk now held a laptop, a, stipulation from mum, so that we could stay in touch. She could have just as easily texted me, but had never quite mastered it as yet. He’d left the rocking chair from when I was small  in the corner. There was also the only bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have share, but he was tidy, so it didn’t seem like it would be too bad.

One of the best things about Greg  is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settled, a feat that would have been impossible for my mum.

Thomas Mills Secondary School had a frightening total of only a little over a thousand; there were less then that back home, but I didn’t think the extra bodies would bother me. It might even be interesting. The one worry I had was that all of the kids here had grown up together. Their grandparents had probably been toddlers together.

It was a daunting thought, to be the outsider... maybe, Greg had spoken of me enough, about the move. I wished I could blend in a little, but physically, I was tan, sporty, blond; a rugby lad; all the things that go with living in Australia. Maybe the balling would come in handy.

I finished putting my clothes in the aged dresser, took out my travel bag and went to the bathroom to clean myself up after the day plus worth of travel. It felt good to shower and get the dry-salt-sweat off of me. As I got out I looked at my face in the mirror. I brushed my fingers through my damp hair and had a seconds long internal pep-talk. Tomorrow would be just the beginning and I knew I could face it. This was going to be fine.

I didn't sleep well that night. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and prayed the relentlessness would stop. I’d had a nightmare already and didn’t need to stay up all night. Finally, I fell asleep sometime after midnight, reading on my mobile.

The white, dewy fog was thick. We were enveloped in a cloud and it was unsettling. The whole house felt diminished, even the noise of breakfast being made downstairs. Coming down, I saw that Greg had made eggs and toast. A pot of coffee was on a knitted flannel in the middle of the small table waiting. So was the sugar bowl and the milk. I smiled weakly and sat down and made a cup. Taking a deep drink of the rich heavily sugared caffeinated fuel helped perk me up as I quickly ate, staying mostly quiet. I’d be in street clothes today, my uniform picked up by Greg later in the day after the school had my proper measurements, so they could be laundered for tomorrow. I thanked him, before he left.  

Greg had to get down to the station due to an on going case. Even out here in this sleepy little place, murders still occurred. After he left, I sat at the old table and examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white lino floor. It was certainly a bachelor’s home. I looked over into the handkerchief-sized parlor, across the hall, and noticed over the small fireplace was a row of pictures.

First a wedding picture of Greg and my mum, then one of the three of us after I was born, taken by a helpful midwife, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. I would have to see Greg would put the school pictures somewhere else, at least while I was living here. It just felt weird. I wasn’t that kid anymore anyway. I didn't want to be too early to school, but I knew I might have to fill out papers so I donned my parka and headed out into the rain.

It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I locked up. The sloshing of my new wellies was unnerving. I missed the warm dry heat of morning sun beating against my shoulders. I couldn't pause and admire the Mini again as I wanted. So instead I hurried to get out of the misty wet that seemed to cling to everything. As my hand stroked along the bonnet I smiled even though it came away wet. Greg was trying to make me feel welcome; I’d try to think of that today. Mid-year transitions were always hard. It would be fine.

Inside, it was nice and dry. Moran or Greg had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, petrol, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, but loudly, before settling into a more normal tone. Well, a vehicle this old was bound to have a flaws. The original radio worked, a plus. Turning on to the road, I knew the school wouldn’t be difficult to find, though I'd never been there before. It was, like most other things, just off one of the two the main roads. The other lead towards the Castle; someplace I hadn’t been since I was nine. Might be a bit touristy, but maybe I’d go check it out some weekend.

The secondary school looked like a collection of matching houses, more than anything. There were so many trees surrounding the perimeter I couldn't see its size at first. Quaint in it’s bricking and brilliantly blue roofs, it seemed nestled perfectly alongside the neighbourhood, it’s size masked very well.

I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading front office. No one else was parked there, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot and then have to trudge all the way back. I’d just move after I’d finished. I stepped unwillingly out of my warm car and walked down the little path lined with some sort of flowering hedge. Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with older, though well maintained, high-backed cushioned chairs. The sort you would see in a well maintained parlor. Nestled between the two, a small round table clear of anything except a small indoor potted rosebush.The carpeting was dated but notices cluttering a cork board as large as the wall it was on made it feel more welcoming. The room was cut in half by a long highly polished wood counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a smaller, older woman wearing glasses. She was wearing a purple dress, her hair done perfectly.

The silvery-brunette woman looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm John H. Watson," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Son of the D.I. come home at last.

"Of course, we’ve been expecting you this morning Johnathan- oh, sorry, you prefer John, don’t you?" She said, her voice warming me as much as the toasty interior of the Mini had. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I’m Mrs. Hudson. Here, I have your schedule, and a map of the school."

She brought several sheets to the counter before going through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and said if I was like Greg, that I would like here in Framlingham. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to the Mini, other students out on the green watched as I got back in and drove to the other parking that was obviously meant to be used by everyone not a visitor. I felt a little relief to see that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home it was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny black Astra, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot and alighted quickly so that I wouldn’t be late for my first class.

I looked at the map, trying to memorize it now; it didn’t seem like the layout would be to hard to navigate. I stuffed everything in my satchel, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I could do this, no one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and left the comfortable warmth for the dreary weather I had just escaped moments ago. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, even though it didn’t have one of the school’s emblems. At least I had had the idea to sort of try to blend and it seemed it would do for today. Once I got around the student’s multi-purpose, building three was easy to spot.

A large block ‘3’ was painted in black on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward rushed as I approached. I tried calming as I followed two raincoats through the door. The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. They smiled at me and welcomed me to home-room and introduced themselves. After, I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man with a hawkish nose whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Milverton. He gawked at me when he saw my name, not an encouraging response. At least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It wasn’t as if people didn’t know who I was already given the open staring. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare,Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. Just before the bell rang to change rooms, a boy who had been sitting close leaned over to talk to me.

"You're Johnathan Watson, aren't you?" He looked friendly, but possibly more curious then anything.

"John," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

"Where's your next class?" he asked.

I had to check in my bag. "Maths, with Hope, in building six."

"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way..." Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Philip, Philip Anderson," he added.

I smiled tentatively. "Thanks, mate."

"So, this is a lot colder that Sydney, huh?" he asked.

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. "Very."

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"

"A few times a year."

"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered honestly.

"Sunny," I told him. I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s nice.”

"You don't look very English."

"Funny, cause I don’t sound like one, either." He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. “It’s a joke, Philip.” We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym.

"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle.

I smiled at him vaguely. “Yeah, thanks.”

The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My history teacher, Mrs Jefferson, was the only one who made things awkward by having me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. Perfect. I looked like such a prat. After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Framlingham. At least I never needed the map.

One girl sat next to me in both Maths and German, and she walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my five feet six inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of the difference between our heights. Her name was Sally. I smiled and nodded as she went on about teachers and classes. She wasn’t asking me things or demanding either. It was nice. We wound up sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me. There was Molly, and Mary from home-class. Then Tobias. They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy from English, Phillip, waved at me from across the table. It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with other sixth-formers, that I first saw them.

They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most

of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught, and held, my attention.

They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big — muscled like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller, leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond even with his slightly olive skin. The last was lanky, less bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the others, who looked like they should be in uni by now.

The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a beautiful figure. Her hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back; her heart shaped face, with the same slight olive tone that the one boy had as well, was quite amazing. The short girl was pixie-like, thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black, cropped short and pointing in every direction.

And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was pale, the palest of all the students I had yet to see. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had purplish, bruise-like shadows under their eyes as if they were all suffering from a sleepless night. Maybe a couple of days worth. It was odd. Made me wonder why they were here instead of home catching up on the sleep that they desperately looked like they needed. But all this is not why I couldn't look away.

I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, well, beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or in fanfiction. The youngest and the blonde girl possibly painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful. Both the blonde and the auburn haired were quite fetching. I realised where my thoughts were going and quickly stopped them. I had no idea of how people felt here and had yet to see any same-sex couples. Better to let the thought die right here and now.

As I watched, the small girl rose with her tray, food untouched, and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, until she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging. Weird.

"Who are they?" I asked Sally. “Do they always-”

As she looked up to see who I meant, when suddenly, the auburn one looked at her. He stared intently at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine. He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. Wow. Yes, I bit my lip as I tried to will-away my curiosity once again. My neighbor, Molly, giggled then, the sound almost of embarrassment, while  looking at the table.

“That’s Sherlock Holmes. The others one, the bigger one is George Blackwood,” She continued still, looking down now at her plate. “And the siblings, the blonde ones, are Talia and William Wiggins. Quinn, the little one with the short hair, that's the other Holmes; they all live together with Dr. Holmes and his wife." She said this under her breath. “Quinn and Sherlock are the adopted niece and nephew. Their parents died. So sad.”

Well that explained why the younger of the two looked similar as well as the other set. I glanced sideways at the beautiful Holmes boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. Strange name, I thought. The kind of name a grandparent might have. Great-grandparent? But maybe that was the way of the Holmes, naming the children after their ancestors? Maybe they fancied Victorian sensibilities?

"They are... very nice-looking." I struggled with the conspicuous understatement.

"Yes!" Sally agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though- George and Talia, and William and Quinn, I mean. And they live together.And Sherlock- he can be a bit much. Like he knows everything . It’s unsettling."

Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit even in Sydney, as metropolitan as it was, it would cause gossip.

"Which ones were the Holmes? The auburn ones right?” I asked and then immediately added the other set as to not seem overly curious.”And the blonde- Wiggins? The other one doesn’t look related..."

"Oh, the adopted through state care. Dr. Holmes is really young, in his maybe thirties? His wife is beautiful.” Her voice sounded wistful. “Kind, too.”

“When Dr. and Mrs. Holmes met, she’d already had them since they were eight. She's their aunt or something like that.” Molly spoke again, this time smiling and looking at us once again. “The rest came along when they started fostering. It’s sort of sweet. Yours, mine, ours through adoption.”

"That's really kind of nice for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they're so young and everything."

"I guess so," Sally admitted. “It’s really the not-quite-siblings being, well, couples that gets me.”

"I think that Mrs. Holmes can't have any kids, though," Mary added to possibly soften Sally’s words. “And really, it’s not like they are sexually promiscuous here so maybe they are waiting-”

 "Have they lived in Framingham for long?" I asked. Surely I would have noticed them on one of my past summers here.Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to the table where the strange family sat.

"No," She said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like me. "They immigrated two years ago from somewhere in Canada."

I felt a surge of pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders. Clearly not accepted by anyone really. Even though I was the newest, everyone knew GREG, so I was sort-of a local. It would explain why some were at least willing to talk to me. Maybe earn favour. I most certainly wasn’t the most interesting by any standard, so it wouldn’t be surprising. I was certain though that the strange, new accent didn’t hurt either.

As I examined them, the youngest Holmes looked up and met my gaze, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. I looked away after a second, not wanting to give it away that I was openly ‘looking’, it seemed to me that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation as well. Maybe? I knew I wanted to get a chance to maybe check again, but didn’t want to get caught-out.

"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?" I asked.

I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other students had today. He had a slightly frustrated expression. It was almost... endearing. I looked down again, away from him.

“That’s Sherlock. He's gorgeous, of course, but he doesn't date. Apparently none of the girls here are, well, good enough for him." Molly sniffed. I wondered when he'd turned her down. That explained the nervous giggle from earlier at least.

I bit my lip to hide my smile then I did glance at him again. I couldn’t help it. His face was turned away, but I thought his cheek appeared lifted, as if he were smiling, too. After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful. Even the big, brawny one. How was that even possible?

The one named Sherlock didn't look at me again.

I sat at the table with Sally and her friends longer than I would have if I'd been sitting alone. One of my new acquaintances, Molly, had Biology II with me the next hour. We walked to class together in silence. When we entered the classroom, Molly went to sit at a black-topped lab table exactly like the ones I was used to, giving me a hesitant smile.

“Sorry,” She already had a neighbor.

In fact, all the tables were filled but one.

“It’s fine, Molly. Thanks.”

I scanned the class again. Next to the center aisle, Sherlock Holmes was sitting next to the only open seat.

Well, this would be an interesting hour.

I went back up to the teacher to get my slip signed and watched him in my peripheral. Miss James signed my slip and handed me a current list for revision for her class. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, she had no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room. As I passed behind him to get to the chair, he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting my eyes with the strangest expression on his face. I looked away quickly, shocked and stumbled over a bookbag strap in the walkway having to catch myself on the edge of a table nearest him.

His eyes had gone black - fathomless.

I kept my eyes down and moved  to sit by him, mumbling an apology, bewildered by the antagonistic stare he'd given me. I set my book on the table and took my seat. The Holmes boy shifted. His posture obviously changed. He was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face. I tried to pay attention to the teacher instead, unfortunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied. I took notes carefully anyway to give myself something to do, anything to do that would keep my focus on the class and not the boy beside me.

Maybe he had noticed my interest in the few half glances. I didn’t think I had been that overt.

Maybe he was upset by it, if he had seen my curiosity.

I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally, through side-glances, at the strange boy next to me. Sherlock seemed not to relax his stiff position on the edge of his chair at any point. He continued sitting as far from me as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg was balled into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. His long sleeves of the white shirt our uniform called for was pushed up to his elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath the pale skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next to his burly brother. The word wiry came to mind.

The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. I’d do my best to keep my eyes on my notes and block him out. I peeked up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaring down at me again, those bottomless eyes disquieting. As I flinched away from him in surprise, the bell rang loudly. All at once he was out of his seat and he was out the door with his jacket in hand before anyone else was out of their seat.

I sat momentarily frozen, staring blankly after him before I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the... well whatever it was I was feeling... that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear up. For some reason, my temper was hardwired to my tear ducts. It happened only if I was really angry and I knew it. It was irrational and embarrassing. Especially for a boy.

"Aren't you Johnathan Watson?" a male voice asked.

I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his dark curly hair making him look sort of cherubic, smiling at me in a friendly way.

"John," I corrected him, with a smile.

"I'm Mike Stamford."

"Hi, Mike."

"Do you need any help finding your next class?"

"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."

"That's my next class, too." He seemed thrilled, though it wasn't that big of a coincidence in a school this small. “We’ve got home-room together. So we’ll be rugby mates too.”

We walked to class together; he was a chatterer. It was nice. Mike supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in Cardiff until he was ten, then his family moved here. It turned out he was in my English class also. And possibly had taken a fancy to Molly. He was the nicest person I'd met today.

"So, how did you like sitting next to Holmes?” We were changing out by this point and I was not exactly glad for the topic, but given Sally and everyone else’s opinion on the family, It was unsurprising.

"Was that the boy I sat next to in Biology?" I asked carefully wanting to appear unaffected by the topic. “Sherlock, right?”.

"Yes," he said. "He looked as if you had tried to chat him up. Small talk him to death, possibly."

"No," I responded. "I never spoke to him."

"He's a weird guy. Keeps to himself. I think he sort of has a bad wrap." Mike lingered by me, closing the gap just a bit; just enough to speak quietly amongst the din of the other boys changing. "Well maybe he’ll get the hint and talk to you..."

“I don’t know what you mean.” He was friendly and clearly had great gaydar. Possibly. It wasn't enough to ease my slight worry over the subject. “He’s a bloke-”

“John, it’s fine.” With that Mike winked and clapped a hand on my shoulder conspiratorially. “Have a cousin. Really, it’s fine.”

He was the closest to genuinely friendly I had met here, with the exception of Molly possibly. Maybe I could trust him. Only time would tell. “Yeah? Thanks.”

I watched four rugby games running simultaneously. Remembering the most recent injury I had sustained playing, I felt faintly nauseated. I wanted to be out on the green. Get my hands dirty and run out whatever this was that I was feeling that balled deep within my stomach. The final bell rang at last. After changing out and Mike giving me his number, I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong, and colder. I wrapped my arms around myself.

When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked right into Sherlock Holmes.

He stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized again that tousled dark auburn hair. He didn't appear to notice the sound of my entrance.I stood against the back wall, waiting for the nice receptionist to be free.

He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the argument. He was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology to another time; any other time.

I just couldn't believe that this was about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look on his face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me.

The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted, rustling the papers on the desk and chilling the room.

The girl who came in placed a note in one of the wire baskets and walked back out again. Normal for a school, to have runners. I watched as Sherlock's back stiffened though, before he turned slowly to glare at me. Must have finally noticed my presence. I tried nodding curtly in a way to just acknowledge him. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. He turned back to the receptionist. Oh, God. What if he was gay and was worried I would out him?

I needed to fix whatever this was. Let him know if that was the case that I would never because-

Well, because.

"Never mind, then," He said hastily in a voice that belonged somewhere in the depths of night coming from a pillow beside a person, not in a school. "I can see that it's impossible." And without another look, he turned on his heel and disappeared out the door.

I went meekly to the desk, my face white, and handed her the signed slip.

"How did your first day go, dear?" the receptionist asked maternally.

"Fine."

She didn't look convinced.

“Give it a few days, dear.” She tried to helpfully supply.

When I got to the Mini, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this damp green place. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly. Soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the key and flicked the heat over to high. I drove quietly back to Greg’s house, fighting internally with myself the whole way.

Chapter Text

The next day was better... and worse.

It was better because it wasn't raining yet, though the clouds were dense and opaque. It was easier because I knew what to expect of my day Mike came to sit by me in English, and walked me to my next class. People also didn't look at me quite as much as they had yesterday. That was nice. It felt like I was deemed as close to local barring the tan and accent and that was alright. I sat with a big group at lunch that included Mike,Philip, Sally, and several other people whose names and faces I now remembered. I began to feel like I was treading water.

It was worse because I was tired; I still couldn't sleep with the wind echoing around the house. Mr. Hope called on me in Maths when my hand wasn't raised and I had the wrong answer. It was miserable because I had to play rugby as a house building exercise, and the one time I didn't move fast enough, I got hit hard on my thigh and dropped in agony. It was embarrassing.

Also, Sherlock Holmes wasn't in school at all.

All morning I was concerned about lunch; whether or not he would be glaring at me the entire time. I really needed to talk to him and get this straightened out. Part of me wanted to confront him and demand to know what I had done to piss him off. The other part of me hoped that it wasn’t what I thought it might have been... no one deserved to worry about that. When I walked into the cafeteria with Sally, I saw that his four siblings of sorts were sitting together at the same table, and he wasn’t there. Maybe skipped lunch for the same reasons I had contemplated.

Mike intercepted us and steered us to his table. Molly seemed elated by the attention, and the rest of their friends quickly joined us. I tried to listen to their easy chatter, I found myself wanting to look towards the other table. Why was I hoping that the idiot would appear so I could go over and just smooth things over?

It was silly to be nervous about it.

Not worth being tense waiting for an arrival that was not coming. It’s not like the movies. Even if he had suspected, there had to be some other reason that Sherlock Holmes seemed to completely reject me as a person before we could even say hello. I hoped that he would simply ignore me when we did see one another and prove my suspicions false.

I walked to Biology with more confidence when, by the end of lunch, he still hadn't showed. MIKE walked faithfully by my side to class going on about how sweet Molly was. I held my breath, tensing as we went through the door, but Sherlock wasn't there. I exhaled and went to my seat, relaxing. Mike followed, talking about an upcoming trip to the beach and whether or not he should officially ask Molly as a date or just as a friend. Relationships. He lingered by my desk till the bell rang.

Then he smiled at me, wistfully sighing at his thoughts, and went to sit by a girl with braces and a bad perm. In a town like this, where everyone lived on top of everyone else, diplomacy was essential. I just hoped that Molly felt sort-of the same, for Mike's sake. I was relieved that I had the desk to myself; that Sherlock was absent. I told myself that repeatedly. But I couldn't get rid of the nagging suspicion that I was the reason he wasn't there. It was ridiculous, and egotistical. It was impossible. And yet I couldn't stop worrying that it was true.

When the exercise was over, I tried my best not to limp back towards the our changing rooms. I quickly dressed back into my uniform, navy trousers, white shirt. jacket, dark blue tie as I hadn’t gotten my house assignment yet. I found myself hoping Ii was with Mike. He was talkative and friendly. It was nice. He also had stated he wanted to go go for some sort of medical career. I have always known I wanted to be a doctor, too, so it would be nice to have someone to revise with when the time comes.

I finally made it out and into the chilly air. I huddled into my parka as my leg twinged horribly, I was having to navigate through the sea of other students so that didn’t help either. I got into my Mini finally and went for my wallet to make sure I had Greg's card and some of my own money as well. As I waited in the queue of cars, I thought about what I needed to go to the shops for and set up provisions for the house. So a little bit of my normal had followed me to this godforsaken place. With Greg though, I didn't mind. It was nice to cook on my own. I’d found I enjoyed it immensely over the last couple of years.

My thoughts came to a halt as I noticed Dr. Holmes brood all alighting into a jet black BMW with equally dark tinted windows. Well of course that one would be theirs. I wondered if that meant that the silver Audi with the severe tint job was Sherlock's as it wasn’t here and neither was he. The little pixie-like one looked my direction and smiled shyly. It was... maybe I could ask her about him- why he seemed to hate me so without even knowing me. I ran my fingers through my hair and turned left to go towards the markets and away from thoughts of school, rugby, and him.

The grocer was busy, surprisingly so, but I was able to navigate it as easily as a Woolworths so that was nice. It helped to do something familiar to clear my thoughts of the day I had just had. After I was off to the butcher for some mince, sausages, and chicken. Provisions all purchased I headed home and began boiling water and heating a pan with chopped carrots and a small onion. It felt good to be in a warm kitchen. I stuffed the rest of the perishables in the refrigerator and everything else in the nooks and crannies I could fine. I’d have to clean out the cabinets, but that could be saved for a day I was in particularly foul-mood. When I was finished with that, I took my knapsack upstairs. Before starting my homework, I changed into a pair of dry sweats, and checked my e-mail for the first time in a few days. I had three messages. All from mum.

John-
Write me as soon as you get in. Tell me how your flight was. Is it raining? I miss you already. I'm almost finished packing for Florida, but I can't find my pink blouse. Do you know where I put it? Phil says hi.
Mom.

I sighed and went to the next. It was sent eight hours after the first.

John-
Why haven't you e-mailed me yet? What are you waiting for? Mom.

The last was from this morning.

Johnathan-
If I haven't heard from you by 5:30 p.m. today I'm calling your father.

I checked the clock. I still had an hour, but my mom was well known for jumping the gun.

Mum,
Calm down. I'm writing right now. Don't do anything rash.
John.

I sent that, and began again.

Mum,
Everything is great. Of course it's raining. I was waiting for something to write about. I met some nice kids who sit by me at lunch.

Dad bought me a vintage Mini, can you believe it? I love it. It's old, but really sturdy, which is good, you know, for me.

I miss you, too. I'll write again soon, John

I had decided to read the novel we were currently studying after responding to mum in hopes of losing myself in it for a while, but my stomach grumbled reminding me the I needed to start dinner. I put the sausages in the pan and potatoes into the boiling water. With the rolls in the oven I figured it would be a simple, but much better than Greg had in ages at home.

"John?" my father called out when he heard me on the stairs. Who else? I thought to myself.

"Hey, Dad, in the kitchen."

He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as I got out plates and started the kettle. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun on the job. But he kept it ready.

"What's for dinner?" he asked warily.

"Sausages and mash?" I answered.

He looked relieved.

Greg seemed to feel awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; so he lumbered into the living room to watch some telly while I worked. We were both more comfortable that way. I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffed appreciatively as he walked into the room.

"Smells good."

"Thanks."

We ate in silence for a few minutes before he cleared his throat. "So, how do you like school? Have you made any friends?"

"Well, I have a few classes with a girl named Molly. I sit with her friends at lunch. And there's this boy, Mike, who's very friendly. Everybody seems pretty nice."

I watched him take seconds as I spoke, and felt relieved that dinner wasn't rubbish.

"That must be Mike Stamford. Nice kid. Nice family. His dad owns the sporting goods store just outside of town. He makes a good living off all the backpackers who come through here."

"Do you know the Holmes?" I asked hesitantly.

"Dr. Holmes family? Sure. He's a great man. Our main physician here."

"They... the kids... are a little different. They don't seem to fit in very well at school."

Greg surprised me by looking upset.

"Some of the people in this town," he muttered. "Dr Holmes is a brilliant surgeon who could probably work in any hospital in the world, make ten times the salary he gets here," he continued a serious expression on his face. "We're lucky to have him. Lucky that his wife, Anthea, wanted to live in a small town. He's an asset to the community, and all of those kids are well behaved and polite. And they stick together the way a family should. Camping trips every other weekend... Just because they weren’t born here, people have to talk."

"They seemed nice enough to me. I just noticed they kept to themselves. They're, um, very attractive," I added, before thinking about what I was saying.

"You should see the doctor," Greg said, laughing. "It's a good thing he's happily married. A lot of the nurses at the hospital have a hard time concentrating on their work with him around. I know we haven’t talked about it but, you know-”

"Dad, it’s... we don’t have to-”

“Well alright, but John, just know it’s... whomever you want to date-”

I turned tomato red as he spoke. It was mortifying and I felt miserable and thankful all at once. I knew this talk would be coming, was most likely not over, but after today, I just didn’t want to even try. We lapsed back into silence as we finished eating. He cleared the table while I started on the dishes. He dried and set them in the rack. It was comfortable. Like we had done this same thing tons of times before. I told him goodnight after we were finished and I went upstairs unwillingly to work on my maths. I could feel a tradition in the making.

The rest of the night passed quietly and I fell asleep quickly. The rest of the week fell into place so that by Friday I was able to recognize, if not name, almost all the students at school. At the last class of the day with my new house, they were more respectful of my space even though it was rugby, because they knew I still was healing. It seemed as if Framingham might not be as terrible as I had worried it might be. There was only one thing that bothered me.

Sherlock didn't come back to school.

I noticed, everyday, that he hadn’t been back yet, but that his family seemed to be acting... well there normal... so maybe he was just away. Not transferred or sick. Where would he transfer too anyway? This wasn’t Sydney. At lunches, the chatter around the table was for the trip to the coast that Mike was trying to put together to Aldeburgh in a couple of weeks. It sounded interesting at least. The music festival was supposed to be a big deal and even Molly seemed to chime in about it. The beach would be warmish, but the water would be cold. I wondered if people even swam in the water there.

By Friday, I tried not to think about him; it was obvious that he had no intention of coming back and there wasn’t even a rumor of where he had gone. So much for fixing whatever it was that had set him off the day we had met.

My first weekend in Framlingham passed without incident. Greg, unused to spending time in the usually empty house, worked most of the weekend. I used the time to organise the kitchen and go to the bookstore to find something to read beyond the few books I had brought with me. I missed my bookcase back home. I wondered about making a trip into a larger town for better clothing options too. At least with uniforms, I didn’t have to worry about impressing anyone at school with the way I was dressed.

The haze and threat of rain was hard to adjust to. That was the worst. Not being able to see the sun; to feel warm without layers. At least Greg's house was not damp and almost a little cheery with the fire in the grate. I decided to pull down one of the old cookbooks and look through it for a basic bread recipe. Keep my hands busy since there was little else to do. It felt good to still be sort of on my own, like I had been with mum and Harry, but without having to worry about all the rest of the household.

Monday came in a little warmer, but devolved quickly. This did not help my mood. Molly and Mike met me in the car park and we walked to class together, Molly splitting off to her own while we went to class. I was actually beginning to feel comfortable here I realised, even if the weather was making me down. When we walked out of class, the air was full of swirling bits of white. I could hear people shouting excitedly to each other. The wind bit at my cheeks, my nose.

"Wow," Mike said. "It's snowing."

I looked at the little cotton fluffs that were building up along the sidewalk and swirling erratically past my face.

"Snow?”

He looked surprised. "Don't you like snow?"

"I thought it was supposed to come down in flakes — you know, each one unique and all that. These just look like the ends of cotton swabs."

"Haven't you ever seen snow fall before?" he asked incredulously.

"No." I paused.

He laughed. “Oh, this is going to be grand!” He bent over and began scraping together a pile of the white mush.

"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" I kept walking as I spoke. "I’m going inside."

He just nodded, his eyes on Philip's retreating figure.

My morning classes were all rote now, so it was easy to take the notes that I needed and not worry. The one I had to pay attention in was maths, but I was sure I’d be able to handle it. Sally was great at showing me a few tricks her da had taught her, and they seemed to help too. By the time lunch came around, most of the quad was full of other kids dumping the slushy snow on one another. It did sort of look fun.

But I was also alert and ready to counterattack with prejudice.

Mike caught up to us, and so did Mary, as we entered the dining hall. He had wet spikes in his hair and looked happily at a very dry Molly. They were talking animatedly between each other about the snow fight he had shielded her from. I thought it was pretty smooth of him to get her to fancy him that way. As I was going through and picking out food I just happened to glance over at the table where the Holmes congregated and froze for a second. He was back.

Sally pulled on my arm.

"Hello? John? What do you want?"

I blushed as I hadn't even heard her question. "Um, what was the question again?"

"What's so interesting over there?" Mike asked cheekily.

"Nothing," I answered. I had no reason to feel self-conscious; I reminded myself. "I'll just get a bunty today."

"Aren't you hungry?" Molly asked.

"Actually, I feel a little off," I said, my eyes firmly ahead. "Ta, though."

I waited for them to get their food, and then followed them to a table. Twice Mike asked, with unnecessary concern, how I was feeling. I told him it was nothing, which it was, really; but I was wondering if I should play it up and escape to the nurse's office for the next hour. It could stop me from acting rashly, that was for certain. Ridiculous. I shouldn't have to run away. I could deal with this like an adult. Politely ignore and then try to discuss it with him at some point, but not in class.

I decided to permit myself one glance at the table. If he was glaring at me, I would skip and try to see him after, before rugby. Maybe skip part of that, too, if it meant we could iron out whatever had happened. It was early days at this school. I might be able to get away with excusing my absence the next day claiming illness. Everyone would back me up, especially Mike, as concerned as he was. I must look miserable. I kept my head down and glanced up under my lashes. None of them were looking this way. I lifted my head a little.

They were laughing. Sherlock, William, and George all had their hair entirely saturated with melting snow. Talia and Quinn were leaning away as George shook his dripping hair toward them. They were enjoying the snowy day, just like everyone else. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe he had been sick and was just angry about it? I know I can take things personally. Everyone can have a misunderstanding, right?.

But, aside from the laughter and playfulness, there was something different, and I couldn't quite pinpoint what that difference was. I noticed that Sherlock's skin was less pale, I decided the circles under his eyes much less noticeable. Yes. He had definitely been ill. He looked, well. Better. Healthy.

"What are you staring at?" Mary sniffed, her eyes following my stare.

At that precise moment, his eyes flashed over to meet mine. He didn't look harsh or unfriendly as he had the last time I'd seen him. He looked merely curious again, unsatisfied in some way.

"He's staring at you," Molly giggled in my ear.

I dropped my eyes at the comment. "Yeah, he was, wasn’t he?" I couldn't help asking.

"Well," she said, sounding chipper. "It seems it to me, any rate."

"I don't think he likes me," I confided. I still felt queasy. But now for an entirely different reason.
"They- don't like anybody, well, they don't notice anybody enough to like them- But he's still staring at you. Maybe, well." Her voice dropped a bit and she leaned closer. “Maybe it’s, um, he fancies you. A bit?”

"Molly," I hissed. “I... we can’t-”

“Oh! I won’t say another word here. Promise.” She snickered, but she looked away. I raised my head enough to make sure that she did. “It’s okay, you know, if you are.”

Philip interrupted us then; he was planning an epic battle of the blizzard in the parking lot after school and wanted us to join. Sally agreed enthusiastically, baring her teeth and hitting him on his arm. The way Molly looked at Mike left little doubt that she would be up for anything he suggested. It was on. For the rest of the lunch hour, I very carefully kept my eyes at my own table. I tried to chat with Mary about the upcoming theatre performance she was in. Glared at Mike with false-gruffness when he tried to goad me into the slush-fest later now that I was looking better.

I decided to honor the bargain I'd made with myself. Since Sherlock hadn't looked angry, I would go to Biology. My stomach did little flips at the thought of sitting next to him again. They had nothing to do with the worry I had had days earlier. No, now it was turning on me for a whole new reason. One I wasn't fully sure would be welcomed. I didn't really want to walk to class with Mike as usual, on the off chance I gave my nerves away, but when we went to the door, everyone besides me groaned in unison. It was raining, washing all traces of the snow away in clear, icy ribbons down the side of the walkway. I smiled to myself, secretly pleased. I would be free to go talk to Sherlock without having to skip practice.

Once inside the classroom, I saw with relief that my table was still empty. Mr Gregson was walking around the room, distributing one microscope and box of slides to each table. Class didn't start for a few minutes, and the room buzzed with conversation. I kept my eyes away from the door, looking over notes I didn’t really need, and heard very clearly when the chair next to me moved. My eyes stayed carefully focused on the pattern I was drawing.

"Hello," said a quiet, deep musical voice.

I looked up. He was sitting as far away from me as the desk allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His dazzling face was friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips. But his eyes were careful.

"I didn't have a chance to introduce myself last week. You must be John Watson."

My mind was spinning with confusion. Had I made up the whole thing? He was perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn't think of anything conventional to say.

"Yes, I am. And you’re Sherlock?” I managed to speak without my voice breaking. “How’d you know?”.

He laughed a soft, enchanting laugh.

"Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town's been waiting for you to arrive."

"Yea, Greg- Dad. Sorry. Dad’s doing.”

I couldn’t help but to smile, Greg had been very good to me since I’d been here. I knew it was something like that. Thinking of him making a fuss about me made me smile a little. It was different to be, well, cared for. Thankfully, Mr Gregson started class at that moment. Better than embarrassing myself, I tried to concentrate as he explained the lab we would be doing today. The slides in the box were out of order. Working as lab partners, we had to separate the slides of and label them accordingly. In twenty minutes, he would be coming around to see who had it right.

"Want to go first?" Sherlock asked, breaking my reverie. I looked up to see him smiling a crooked smile so beautiful that I could only stare at him like an idiot. "Or, I could start, if you wish." The smile faded; he looked slightly concerned. Serious.

"No," I said. "I'll go ahead."

I was showing off, just a little. I'd already done this lab, and I knew what I was looking for. It should be easy. I snapped the first slide into place under the microscope and adjusted it quickly to the 40X objective. I studied the slide briefly.

My assessment was confident. "Cellulose."

"Do you mind if I look?" he asked as I began to remove the slide. His hand caught mine, to stop me, as he asked. His fingers were ice-cold, like he'd been holding them in a snowdrift before class. When he touched me, it stung my hand as if an electric current had passed through us.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, pulling his hand back immediately. "Poor circulation at times."

However, he continued to reach for the microscope. I watched him, still staggered, as he examined the slide for an even shorter time than I had.

"Good answer," he agreed, writing it neatly in the first space on our worksheet. He swiftly switched out the first slide for the second, and then glanced at it cursorily.

"Sugar water," he murmured, writing it down as he spoke.

I kept my voice indifferent. "May I?"

He smirked and pushed the microscope to me. I looked through the eyepiece eagerly; it was interesting to watch, so it gave me something else to concentrate on other than him.

Sherlock was correct.

"Slide three?" I held out my hand without looking at him.

He handed it to me; it seemed like he was being careful not to touch my skin again.

I took the most fleeting look I could manage. "Pollen."

I passed him the microscope before he could ask for it. He took a swift peek, and then wrote it down, once again with that small smirk against his lips. We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Mike and his partner comparing two slides again and again, and another group had their book open under the table.

“I didn’t mind your fingers touching, it’s that-” God, I could not sound more like an idiot. “well, you must have scuffed your shoes along or something. Got a shock. I’m not-” I glanced up, and he was staring at me, that same inexplicable look of frustration in his eyes. Suddenly I identified that subtle difference in his face. “Hey, did you say you're anemic?”

He seemed puzzled by my unexpected question. "No."

"Oh," I mumbled. Honestly, if I were him the non sequitur would have thrown me as well. "I just, you said something about circulation issues? I mean, I'm glad you're better."

He shrugged, and looked away.

I vividly remembered how pale he had been, the flat dark under his gorgeously dark eyes the last time he'd glared at me. The color was striking against the background of his skin and his auburn hair. Today, his eyes were a completely different color: a strange almost-grey, lighter than the moody sky that currently brooded over us, but with the same sort of silvery washed tone. I didn't understand. Contacts maybe. I looked down towards the lino, my ears hot now too, at the thought. Here I was blushing over Sherlock Holmes.

His hands were clenched into hard fists under the table.

"Hey, you alright?" I asked quietly.

Mr Gregson came to our table then, to see why we weren't working. He looked over our shoulders to glance at the completed lab, and then stared more intently to check the answers.

"So, Sherlock, didn't you think Johnathan should get a chance with the microscope?" Mr Gregson asked.

"John," Sherlock corrected automatically. "Actually, he identified three of the five."

He looked at me now; his expression was skeptical.

"Have you done this lab before?" he asked.

I smiled sheepishly. "Not with these specifically."

Mr Gregson nodded. "Were you in an advanced placement program of some sort previously?"

"Yes."

"Well," he said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners." He mumbled something else as he walked away.

"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

I had the feeling that he was forcing himself to make small talk with me.

"Not really," I answered honestly, “But I’m still getting used to it, I guess.”

"You don't like the cold." It wasn't a question.

"Well, no, but it’s not terrible.” I hoped it wouldn’t be at least. "Not a lot of snow at home."

"Framlingham must be a difficult place for you to live," he mused.

"It is," I muttered, then met his gaze. "I think it's growing on me though."

Sherlock looked fascinated by what I said, for some reason I couldn't imagine. His face was such a distraction that I tried not to look at it any more than courtesy absolutely demanded.

"Why did you come here, precisely?"

No one had asked me that, not even Greg. I looked up curiously and met those piercing eyes.

"It's... complicated."

"I think I can keep up," he pressed.

I paused for a long moment, and then made the mistake of meeting his gaze. His dark gold eyes confused me, and I answered without thinking.

"My mother is getting remarried," I said. “And she still has my sister so...”

"That doesn't sound so complex," he disagreed, but he was suddenly sympathetic. "When did that happen?"

"When did what happen?" My voice sounded sad, even to me.

"With the soon to be step-father?" Sherlock surmised, his tone still kind. “He obviously figured out that you had bisexual tendencies.”

"No.” I whispered gruffly and looked around under my lashes. “It’s- it was fine. He’s too young, maybe, but nice enough."

"There’s no reason to cover here, John.” Sherlock once again held his gaze, the almost concern was certainly there. “Not with me.”

I couldn't fathom his acceptance, it had seemed so easy. He continued to stare at me with penetrating eyes, as if my life's story was somehow vitally important, yet his face had definitely softened into something almost kind.

"He... travels a lot. He plays footie for a living." I half-smiled.

"Have I heard of him?" he asked, smiling in response.

"Probably not. He moves around a lot-"

"And you moved all the way here so that she could travel with him," He said it as an assumption again, not a question. “Give your sister a little better life with a homophobe not around As he would be more likely to leave her at home as she is female and he's more likely to be blind to her sexual preferences. Does your mother know?”

My chin raised a fraction. "No, she does not... and he isn’t, he just thought I was-"

His eyebrows knit together. "I don't understand," he admitted, and he seemed unnecessarily frustrated by that fact.

I sighed. “Confused.” Why was I explaining this to him? He continued to stare at me with obvious curiosity. “He thought I was confused, but I’m not, I know who I am. She’s... well I hope both her and my sister are happy.”

"But now you're unhappy," he pointed out.

"No. Well, yes, but not for the reasons you probably think.” I challenged.

"That doesn't seem fair." He shrugged, but his eyes were still intense.

I laughed without humor. "It might not be, but it was my decision. I have more freedom here and dad- well I’m sure he knows, and he’s fine. So."

"Your father is a very understanding man," he agreed.

"So that's, good." I insisted.

His gaze became appraising. "It is. You though, you are... a mystery." he said slowly. “I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see. Am I wrong?"

I tried to ignore him.

"I didn't think so," he murmured smugly.

"Why does it matter to you?" I asked, I kept my eyes away so that he couldn’t read them or whatever it was that he was doing. "My issues have nothing to do with you."

"That's a very good question," he muttered, so quietly that I wondered if he was talking to himself.

I sighed, scowling at the blackboard.

"Am I annoying you?" he asked. He sounded amused.

I glanced at him without thinking and told the truth again. "Not exactly. I'm more annoyed at myself. I have apparently been doing a horrible job of... it doesn’t matter.” I frowned.

"On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read." Despite everything that I'd said and he'd guessed, he sounded like he meant it.

"You must be a good at quick educated guessing then." I replied.

"You have no idea." He smiled widely, flashing a set of perfect, ultra-white teeth.

Mr Gregson called the class to order then, and I turned to listen. I was in disbelief that I'd just explained all of this to someone I thought might have hated me just a few days ago. Maybe I was going a bit barmy with the weather. I knew I wasn’t; that this had everything to do with his voice and those eye. He'd seemed engrossed in our conversation, but now I could see, from the corner of my eye, that he was leaning away from me again, his hands gripping the edge of the table with unmistakable tension.

I tried to appear attentive but my thoughts were unmanageable. “I don’t have cooties.”

Sherlock looked over sharply at me, his face still sort-of open, then the moment was gone. I watched as he shuttered himself in. A second later the bell rang and Sherlock swiftly left the class for his next one I presumed. Maybe he had a few things he was keeping close, too.

"That was awful," Mike groaned as we left class. "They all looked exactly the same. You're
lucky you had Holmes for a partner."

"I didn't have any trouble with it," I said, stung by his assumption. "I've done the lab before, though," I added before he could get his feelings hurt.

"Sherlock seemed friendly enough today," he commented as we shrugged into our raincoats.

I tried to seem indifferent.

I was so indifferent, I couldn't even concentrate on Mike's chatter as we walked to our cars. He noticed and just smiled widely before continuing on. The rain was just a mist as I walked to the parking lot, but I was happier when I was in the dry interior of the Mini. I got the heater running, unzipped my jacket, and ran my fingers through my hair so the heater could dry it on the way home. I looked around me to make sure it was clear.

That's when I noticed the still, figure leaning against a car becoming quickly drenched- Sherlock was leaning against the front door of an silver Audi A3, three cars down from me, and staring intently in my direction. I swiftly looked away and threw the mini into reverse, almost hitting a bright blue Nissan Qushqai in my haste. Lucky for the other student, I stomped on the brake in time. It was just the sort of car that might make scrap of my Mini. I took a deep breath, looked out the other side of my car, and cautiously pulled out again. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Audi, but I swear I saw him laughing.

Chapter Text

When I opened my eyes in the morning, something was different. It was the light. I jumped up to look outside, and then groaned as I took in the whitened the road. But that wasn't the worst part. All the rain from yesterday had frozen solid making the driveway a deadly ice slick, all glimmering and terrifying. I had enough trouble not falling down since my injury; I would have to be careful today.

I bolted down some toast and some juice from the bottle. I felt excited to go to school, and that scared me. If I was being honest with myself, which I needed to be, this was really about Sherlock Holmes and that spark of something.

And that was very, very stupid.

It took every ounce of my concentration to make it down the icy brick driveway alive. I almost lost my balance, but I managed to cling to the old cane Greg had left out for me. Greg had left for work before I had even got downstairs, but he still was looking after me. It was really nice, highly polished dark wood, but I was seventeen. Not some old dotty man for chrissakes. Clearly, today was going to be nightmarish, but needs must. I distracted myself from my fear of falling and my unwanted speculations about Sherlock Holmes by thinking about anything but him and concentrating on not falling on my arse and breaking a hip. Then I'd really be buggered. My throat suddenly felt tight. I wasn't used to being taken care of, and Greg's unspoken concern caught me by surprise.

I drove very slowly not wanting to carve a path of destruction all the way down Main. When I got out at school, I breathed the sweet air of relief at not killing anyone else, myself included. The roads had been treated, but it was still my first time driving through the hellish stuff. I was standing by the Mini locking it up and struggling to fight back the sudden wave of emotions that filtered back to me when I heard an odd sound.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

For me it was more like slow motion. More accurately it was freeze frame. Possibly. Everything was both stopped still and going all at once but at the rate of treacle. I looked up, and couldn’t breathe. I knew I was gone. This was it. I saw several things simultaneously. The adrenaline rush seemed to make my brain work much faster, and I was able to take everything in like a perfect snapshot that would be my final memory.

Sherlock Holmes was standing five cars down from me, staring at me. In horror. His face was a mask of shock, mirroring mine. But of more immediate importance was the dark blue Nissan Qishan that I had narrowly missed yesterday skidding, tires locked and squealing against the brakes, swerving without traction; the ice of the parking lot making it impossible for Philip to stop. It was going to hit my Mini, and I was standing between them with my keys still in my hands and knapsack barely slung over my shoulder. I didn't even have time to close my eyes.

At least I got to see his face one more time. If only it could have been a millisecond before he registered what he was about to see. Could have maybe been something. Maybe.

Just before I heard the shattering crunch of the car crash into tail end of the Mini, something hit me hard; but not from the direction I was expecting. My head cracked against the icy blacktop, and I felt something solid and cold pinning me to the ground even as my head heated and screamed at me for the abuse. A low oath made me aware that someone was with me, and the voice was impossible not to recognize. One long, white hand shot out protectively in front of me, forcing Philip's car to shudder against the impact, to stop the tyre handful of centimetres from my face, his hands creating a deep dent in the side of the vehicle's body. Suddenly, Sherlock was gripping under, dragging me, swinging my legs around like a rag doll's, till they hit the tyre of the other car I'd parked alongside. A groaning metallic thud hurt my ears, and the cars settled exactly where, a second ago, I had been.

It was absolutely silent for one long second before the screaming began. I was sure that everyone had their mobiles out or were running toward the administration building for help. It was bedlam. But more clearly than all the yelling, all the noise, I could hear Sherlock Holmes' low, frantic voice in my ear.

"John? John? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." My voice sounded strange. I tried to sit up, and realized he was holding me against the side of his body in an iron grasp.

"Be careful," he warned as I struggled. "I believe you hit your head hard against the asphalt. You could have very serious damage."

"Ow?" I said, as the dull ache at the side of my head slowly turned into something worse.

"That's what I thought." His voice, amazingly, sounded like he was suppressing laughter.

I turned to sit up, and this time he let me, releasing his hold around my torso and sliding as far from me as he could in the limited space. I looked at his concerned, innocent expression and was disoriented again by the force of his silver-colored eyes. What was I asking him? I had forgotten. Then I noticed the look on his face as I groaned and pulled my hand away from my scalp. Blood. The earthen iron of it made my stomach roll. Sherlock stiffened, his eyes going wide and- unhinged.

And then they found us, a crowd of people with tears streaming down their faces, shouting at each other, shouting at us. I was thankful for us both. I'd never seen someone have such an adverse reaction to seeing blood as I often had. I felt sorry for him.

"Don't move," someone instructed.

"Get Philip out of his car!" someone else shouted. "He's stuck!"

There was a flurry of activity around us now. I tried to get up, but Sherlock's hand pushed my shoulder down even as he grimaced and swallowed hard. "Just stay put for now."

"But it's cold," I complained. It surprised me when he chuckled under his breath. There was an edge to the sound.

“Better to be cold than move someone with a possible spinal injury, John. And you want to be a doctor.” His expression had turned to something I did not recognise as his fingers curled gently around my face. “Almost lost that today.”

His expression turned almost comical as I spoke, "But I didn't. Thank you."

"John,” There was urgency now. “I was standing with you, and I pulled you out of the way. Do you understand?"

"Yes?"

No. Not really, but everything would be fine as long as I was still breathing.

His eyes turned impossibly dark. "Please, John."

I could hear the sirens now. "Will you- promise to explain- why the lie- after?" My head was starting to swim and the roll had become a clench and I knew I was going to lose my meager breakfast as soon as I was properly moved. Lovely that. "You- were so far."

It took the co-ordination of adults and responders to shift the car far enough away from us to bring the stretchers in. Sherlock vehemently refused his, but looked almost impossibly broken as he relinquished me to the adults. Everyone present watched soberly as they loaded me in the back of the ambulance. To make matters worse, Greg arrived before they could get me safely away.

"John!" he yelled in panic when he recognized me on the stretcher.

"I'm completely fine, Dad," I looked to him, then over his shoulder at Sherlock. "He was with me-" I had to close my eyes then as the world spun topsy-turvey. I tried to think of a logical solution that could explain what I had just experienced; closing my eyes against the pain of a cracking good headache and now nausea full-on, my mind unhelpfully supplied the memory of Sherlock’s cold hand against my face. I’d almost kill for it now.

Naturally, the ambulance got a police escort to the county hospital.

“John, I’m going to get my father,” I felt ridiculous as they prepped to unload me, Sherlock scooting in the back to speak to me. "He's the best here."

His hand ghosted along my cheek once more and then he hopped out the back and was gliding through the hospital doors. There was another flurry of movement and urgency; another stretcher brought to the bed next to me. I recognized Philip and took a moment to thank whatever God there was that he was alright. Alive.

"John, I'm so sorry! I thought you were going to die! My fault! I hit the fucking shush wrong..."

"Don't worry about it; you missed me. Dodgy leg, remember. Cracked my head though."

"How did you get out of the way so fast? You were there, and then you were gone..."

"Umm... Sherlock pulled me out of the way."

He looked confused. "Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes, he was standing next to me." I gritted my teeth swearing in my mind to stop the rise of bile. I refused to vomit. Again.

"Holmes? I didn't see him... wow, it was all so fast, I guess. Is he okay?"

"I think so. Maybe scraped up a bit? Went to go see his father."

They wheeled me away then, to get scans of my head and leg to make sure I hadn’t re-injured it. I told them there was nothing wrong, and I was almost right. I did have a concussion, but the leg was only scar tissue that was aggravated. I was trapped in the ER, waiting, harassed by Philip’s promises to make it up to me as they stitched the wound on the back of my head. He kept up a remorseful mumbling until I told him to be happy we were both still breathing. That and that Sally might have taking a fancy to him.
The nurse binned my shirt, but helpfully gave me a jumper out of his own stash in his locker. It beat having to wear a gown. It was amazing how small of a cut could bleed so freely once properly cleaned. It felt like hours later when I finally was allowed to doze.

"Is he sleeping?" a musical voice asked a little while later. My eyes flew open.

“Must have been able to, he was given permission.”

Sherlock was standing at the foot of my bed, smirking. I glared at him. It would have been more easy to ogle. But that just wouldn’t do.

"Hey, Sherlock, I'm really sorry-" Philip began.

Sherlock just lifted a hand to stop him. "No blood, no foul," he said, flashing a brilliant smile. He moved to sit on the edge of Philip's bed, facing me. Smirked again. "So, what's the verdict?" he asked me.

"There's nothing wrong with me at all, but a little concussion," I complained. "Minor aggravation of previous injury. Had worse in rugby." I had a feeling he already knew all of this.

"I came to spring you," He looked as if he wanted to laugh. “If you promise not to vomit on me.”

A doctor walked around the corner, just behind and to Sherlock’s left. He was young, darker gingery brown hair, golden eyes and handsome in a by-gone era way. Where Sherlock might be considered Byronic, this man might have been at home in the courts of Queen Elizabeth I. Ruffs and all. He was pale, though, and tired-looking. From Greg's description, this had to be Sherlock's father.

"So, Mr. Watson," Dr. Holmes said in a remarkably appealing voice, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," I said, even as I felt Sherlock watching me.

Dr. Holmes walked to the lightboard on the wall over my head, and turned it on. "Your X-rays look good," he said. "Does your head hurt? Sherlock said you hit it pretty hard. The other doctor suggested you had a concussion? I see here that you're all stitched up."

"It's fine," I repeated with a sigh, throwing a quick scowl toward Sherlock who promptly laughed this time.

The doctor's cool fingers probed lightly along my skull. He noticed when I winced.

"Tender?" he asked. "Stitches seem perfectly spaced and small. The laceration was not terribly deep, nor large. You should be fine in a few days."

"I’ve had worse." I heard a chuckle. Again. My eyes narrowed.

"Now, children.” He stated mildly. “Well, John, your father is in the waiting room. You can go home with him now, but come back if you feel dizzy or have trouble with your eyesight at all."

"I'll wheel you out?" Sherlock said smugly.

"Actually," Dr. Holmes corrected, "Might prove better to have an orderly do so, it seems most of the school is in the main lobby waiting to see you both."

"Oh no," I moaned, covering my face with my hands.

Dr. Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Do you want to stay? Too much?"

"No, no!" I insisted, throwing my legs over the side of the bed and hopping down quickly, forgetting about my damned leg. I started to fall when Sherlock was, once again, right there beside me. Dr. Holmes and he both looked concerned.

"I'm fine," I assured him again.

"Take paracetamol for the pain, the nurse will have given Gregory something a little stronger for later. Only if necessary, John;" he suggested as Sherlock kept me upright. "It seems as if you were extremely lucky," Dr. Holmes said, smiling as he signed my chart with a flourish. Looking way from us to Philip's bed and the miserable boy himself. "You both were." He fixed us with a meaningful look, then his sharp gaze rested on his son. "Following him home? Do let me know how he is fairing tonight? John, be well. Now you, Mr Anderson, I'm afraid that you'll have to stay with us just a little bit longer," he said to Philip, and began checking his cuts.

After retrieving my cane from somewhere; his jaw suddenly clenched. "Your father is waiting for you," Sherlock looked almost uncertain as he offered the wheelchair.

I glanced at Dr Holmes as Sherlock waved the orderly away and began pushing me himself down a back corridor.

"Talk to me," I tried righting myself enough so that he'd listen. "You alright?"

His voice seemed fueled with worry, possibly anger. "What do you want from me, John?"

"I want to know the truth," I said.

"What do you think happened?" Sherlock snapped as he slowed his pace. "That I could watch you-"

“Look, I know you- I know you saved me.” I said each word slowly, carefully. "I'm not going to tell anybody, but it matters to me," I insisted. It was hard to say what came next. "Thank you for jumping in and- you could have- as well you know. I don't know how you deflected Philip's car, but, thank you."

The smile that graced his face as he came around so I could see him seemed uncertain, as if his face was not used to the expression. "There is no reason to be thankful for a purely selfish deed."

His eyes seemed to almost glow in the light that filtered in from the windows in the hall. It was breathtaking. I didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him or ignore what was wrenching in my chest. He paused, and for a brief moment his stunning face was unexpectedly vulnerable.

"Soon, John," he whispered, and then he turned back around and began wheeling me to an exit.

Had I spoken out loud?

Greg rushed to my side as Sherlock stopped and stepped away from pushing me. It felt odd not to have him close to me. "What did the doctor say?"

"Dr Holmes saw me, and he said I was fine and I could go home." I looked toward Sherlock and felt the tips of my ears heat. "Sherlock asked if he could follow us home, stay the afternoon."

Greg put one arm behind my back, in a half hug."If it's true that he had something to do with saving you, he's more than welcome at our house. Sherlock, you okay to drive?"

"Yes, sir. I'll go to school and pick up our assignments, meet you at your home?

When we got to the house, Greg finally spoke. "Um... you'll need to call Ella." He hung his head, guilty.

I was appalled. "You told Mum!"

“Of course I did, John... I was worried. You’d want to know too. Be reasonable.”

My mom was in hysterics, of course. I had to tell her I felt fine at least thirty times before she would calm down. I wasn't as eager to escape Framingham as I thought I would be, Sherlock had, surprisingly, changed my feeling on the matter. Stupid, but none the less true. I decided I might as well go to bed as I waited for him to get back with our homework. I stopped on my way to grab my prescription from the bathroom as my head felt as if it was about to fall off. They did help, and, as the pain eased, I drifted to sleep.

That was the first time I dreamed of Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

In my dream it was very dark, and what dim light there was seemed to be radiating from Sherlock's skin in the late afternoon light. He was pressing the hair gently from my forehead before leaving. I couldn't see his face, just his back as he walked away from me, leaving me in the rapidly darkening room. I tried to follow, but he turned and pressed me back against my bed. Those gorgeous silvery moonlight eyes full of concern turned dark, as they had been the first time I'd met him, his hand cupping my face as he kissed my shocked lips.

My skin felt cooled where his fingers rested against my jaw, the tingle of it pleasant. The kiss was soft and chaste, and I couldn't help but to hope that when I truly kissed him, that this was how it wouId feel. I felt shocked that it was already a foregone conclusion. Sherlock laughed quietly and I swore I heard him whisper for me to sleep, but wasn't I already?

I woke up, slightly startled, then cursing my head; it was now obviously the middle of the night. My lips felt cool, and I giggled at the memory of the dream. Kissing Sherlock. I was elated, full of hope, even though I was certain it would never move beyond this. After that, he was in my dreams nearly every night.

To my dismay, I found myself the center of attention for the rest of that week. Philip was impossible, following me around, obsessed with making amends to me somehow. Mike and Mary were flat pissed towards him even though there was no reason for everyone to be hostile. Yes, people looked at me a bit oddly at first because of my cane, but by the end of the week, they’d gotten used to it. Maybe one more and I’d be able to ditch it again.

No one seemed concerned about Sherlock, though I explained over and over that he was the hero, he had saved my life after all and risked his own; had nearly been crushed, too. Everyone else always commented that they hadn't even seen him there till the van was pulled away. Sherlock was never surrounded by well wishers or the curious. People avoided him as usual. The Holmes and the Wigging sat at the same table as always, talking only among themselves. None of them, especially Sherlock, glanced my way anymore. It stung at first, but I felt that it was mostly due to his siblings- cousins- family.

When he sat next to me in class, as far from me as the table would allow, he seemed totally unaware of my presence. Only now and then, when his fists would suddenly ball up — skin stretched even whiter over the bones — did I wonder if he wasn't quite as oblivious as he appeared. I wanted very much to talk to him, and the day after the accident I tried. The last time I'd seen him, outside the ER, we'd parted ways amicably, with a little flirting if I was understanding the signals. Maybe I'd crossed them all; had gotten it wrong. I couldn't get myself to believe that though.

He was already seated as was usual when I got to Biology, looking straight ahead. I sat down, expecting him to turn toward me. He showed no sign that he realized I was there.

"Hello, Sherlock," I said pleasantly, to show him I was going to stand my ground and be pleasant. "I'm doing better, thanks for asking. How are you coping with almost being smashed to bits?"

He turned his head a fraction toward me without meeting my gaze, nodded once, and then looked the other way. "Fine, John." It sounded normal, but also strained.

And that was the last contact I'd had with him, though he was there, a foot away from me, every day for the last couple of weeks. A welcoming remark on my end, a nod, side eye, or on good days a rough acknowledgement as if his voice was unused for days on in. Maybe it was. He looked fragile. I watched him sometimes, unable to stop myself— from a distance, though, in the cafeteria or parking lot. I watched as his silvery eyes grew perceptibly darker day by day.

I was miserable.

And the dreams continued.

Despite my outright lies, the tenor of my e-mails alerted mom to my depression, and she called a few times, worried. I tried to convince her it was just the weather that had me down; wasn't used to the overcast, damp, or terrible snow. I sold it. She hadn't called back. Mike, at least, was pleased by the obvious coolness between me and my lab partner. I could see he'd been worried that Sherlock's daring rescue might have impressed me, and he was relieved that it seemed to have the opposite effect. He grew more confident, sitting on the edge of my table to talk before Biology class started, ignoring him as completely as he ignored us.

The group was pleased that the beach trip would soon be possible. The snow moved to damp cooling drizzle though, and the weeks passed. Things began to get green again.

Sally made me aware of another event looming on the horizon — she called the first Tuesday of March to ask if she should to invite Philip to the spring dance. "Are you sure you don't mind... I thought he might ask you because he really is an idiot when it comes to trying to make up for that shit he pulled; a dicks before chicks thing. Solidarity. Especially since Holmes has become his own frigid self again." she persisted when I told her I didn't mind in the least. "Still a dick thing, John. I thought, maybe, he had a heart."

"No, I'm not going," I assured her. "And my heat will be okay. Was just a flutter anyway."

"It will be really fun." Her attempt to convince me was kind. "You know we're all going. Should drag your arse there anyway. What about Mary?"

"You have fun with Philip," I encouraged. "Leave me alone with my misery."

I was only half teasing.

The next day, I was surprised that Sally wasn't her usual gushing over her asking Philip. She was silent as she walked by my side between classes, and I was afraid to ask her why. If he'd turned her down, I was the last person she would want to tell knowing I'd go set him straight.

People could be so cruel to each other.

My fears were strengthened during lunch when she sat as far from him as possible, chatting animatedly with Mary instead. Philip was unusually quiet through lunch and was still quiet as he walked me to class, but he didn't broach the subject until I was in my seat and he was perched on my desk. I know that Sherlock was there, but I'd also become accustomed to him ignoring me. It was horrible, but I was learning to live with it.

Philip finally looked at me and grimaced, his voice sounding thin. "Sally asked me to the dance."

"That's great," I made my voice overly excited to make sure the sarcasm hit it's mark through Philip's thick head. "and let me guess, you said no, like a punter."

"Well..." He swallowed and wiped his hands on his trousers as he spoke. "I told her I had to think about it."

"Well I think you don't have half a brain if you said that to her." I paused for a moment, hating the wave of guilt that swept through me. "Philip, look, she likes you. You have to know."

I saw, Sherlock's head tilt fractionally my direction as I spoke. Interesting.

"Philip, tell her yes," I said. "Don't be afraid to talk to her. It hurts to be ignored."

"Did you already ask someone? Sally had mentioned Mary-"

"No," I assured him. "I'm not going to the dance."

"Why not?" Philip was genuinely curious now. "Come stag!"

"You go kiss and make up with Sally." Deflection was always my stronger suit.

"We'll get you there yet, John."

As Philip left, a smile now on his face, I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to ignore the oncoming headache. Mr Gregson began talking. I couldn't concentrate, but tried to give it a go anyway. I sighed and opened my eyes just to meet Sherlock's.

He was staring at me curiously, that same, familiar edge of frustration even more distinct now in his black eyes.

I stared back, surprised, expecting him to look quickly away. But instead he continued to gaze with probing intensity into my eyes. There was no question of me looking away. My hands started to shake.

"Mr Holmes?" Gregson called, obviously waiting on an answer.

"The VanBuren Supernova," Sherlock answered, slowing moving his gaze away from mine back to the front of the class.

I was an idiot, right along with Philip. I couldn't believe the rush of emotion pulsing through me —just because he'd happened to look at me for the first time in a half-dozen weeks. I couldn't allow him to have this level of influence over me. It was pathetic; no more than. It was unhealthy. When the bell rang at last, I turned my back to him to gather my things, expecting him to leave immediately as usual.

"John?"

His voice shouldn't make his heart do the things it was doing. Shouldn't sound so familiar. Here, awake, his voice was certainly as rough as it had been when I had received an actual verbal answer from in in these last weeks. Asleep, in dreams, is where it seemed to belong now.

"Speaking again are we?" I finally asked, an unintentional hint of resignation filling the words.

His lips twitched, fighting a smile. "A little," he admitted.

I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose, allowing the hint of his cologne to invade my senses for better remembering later.

"Then what do you want, Sherlock?" I asked, keeping my eyes closed; it was easier to talk to him coherently that way.

"I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. "I'm being very rude, I know. But it's better this way, really."

I opened my eyes. His face was very serious.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, my voice guarded.

"I don't have friends," he explained.

I turned my head sharply away from him, clenching my jaw against all the hurtful things that came to mind. "You could have."

I gathered my books together, then stood and walked to the door. I meant to sweep out of the room, but of course I caught the stop of my cane on the door jamb and dropped my half closed knapsack. I stood there for a moment, sighed and bent to pick them up. Sherlock was there beside me; he'd already stacked my things and put them into the plain canvas bag before handing it to me.

"You don't understand, John." He whispered between us. "I'm not good."

"Fooled me," I said icily.

It was a relief to leave. I walked hastily to the mini, put in my earbuds and kept my eyes straight ahead, ignoring the looks I was getting from my friends. I hadn't noticed Mary sidling up beside me until I felt my right earbud pup out of my ear.

"Hi, John." She quipped.

"Hey, Mary." I said as I was unlocking the door. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering... if you were going to ask me to the dance?"

That stopped my feet. "I'm not going, Mary, what about Mike?"

"Oh," she gasped. "Molly had told me- I hadn't believed it though." Her eyes narrowed just a bit as she spoke, obviously feeling superior. "You're carrying a torch for Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? Didn't take you for a poofter."

"What did you call me?" My insides clinched as she just continued to smile sweetly.

As she walked off, her tittering laugh clawing at his lungs.

Sherlock was waiting beside my car, looking straight forward, his lips pressed together. If looks to kill, I think we'd all be covered in blood spatter. I yanked the door open and jumped inside, slamming it as Sherlock folded himself into the passenger side and calmly closed it. His car was obviously still parked in the same spot as it had been this morning when he had arrived.

"You do know people will talk, Sherlock."

"People do little else." He shrugged. "This isn't safe, for you. Us."

"Is there an us? I thought you had forgotten I'm still breathing."

I wish I could have taken the words back as soon as I had spoken them. It was wrong. I liked Sherlock, hell I had wet dreams about him. I knew where the hatred really lie. I drove home slowly, carefully, arguing with myself the whole way. He remained quiet but his eyes never left me. Half way home I decided to make Shepard's pie for dinner; no leftovers tonight. The cooking would stop me from internally berating myself the whole time and keep my hands busy for reasons I didn't want to look to closely at. As I opened the door, my mobile chirruped, startling us both and breaking the heavy silence that had come between us.

"It's Sally- Philip asked her finally." It felt like a relief; maybe she'd get busy with Molly over planning and everyone could just go about their business as usual.

Sherlock leaned against the counter as I prepped the veg. "You hate social functions."

"No, I like them-"

"But you don't do this, what the others do. I've seen you." He leaned into my space as he spoke. I noticed I'd stopped breathing. "You crave more."

If there was ever a moment when I fully embraced going weak at the knees, it was this one. All over his voice and a few properly chosen words. I put my hands on the counter to brace myself, forgetting the knife under my palm. The cool bite of the metal brought me back from the thoughts that had begun to occupy my brain.

I winced and lifted my hand. It was just a small nick, the tiniest of things. I also realised that Sherlock had gone very pale and had stopped breathing.

"John-" His eyes were wide and dark.

"I know, I hate the smell too. Everyone says they can't- but I can-"

Sherlock cradled my hand in his. It was nothing but electric. I knew what was coming and I welcomed it, tipping up on my toes pressing his lips to mine. His lips were cool, but soft. So very soft I wanted to bite at them and taste them. I pushed forward our chests brushing. It was intoxicating.

This was the moment my world changed forever.

Chapter Text

Our lips met, my mouth pressing to his, our breath mingling. It was absolutely everything I expected and nothing like it at all. As our chests brushed together I grabbed his shoulder to steady myself on my toes, then found that wasn't necessary as his hands were firmly at my hips holding me perfectly steady. The growl that came from him was shocking, but the kiss remained sweet. Chaste. Sherlock's hands gripped harder causing a whimper over the slight pain of denim biting into my hip. I was suddenly reminded of The Princess Bride and perfect kisses and if this didn't rate close to Buttercup and Wesley I would be severely put out.

I teased my way into his mouth, expecting warmth, but finding the coolness there as well. It wasn't unpleasant, possibly I was just warmer than him. I blushed as I realised he was holding us apart and the reasons as to why that may be. I parted to catch my breath leaning against his cheek.

"Sherlock-" The tang of iron was stronger than it had been, I felt my stomach turn even as he brought his nose to the offending hand and nuzzled against it. "Is this happening? Are we?"

"You have to go clean yourself and I should get home before-"

"Before what? I don't understand." I hoped that he wasn't saying no to whatever this was between us. It was palatable. Weighty. As if I were in water but not drowning. "I've not, offended you, have I?"

His hands locked tighter as Sherlock pulled me within millimeters of him, our bodies pressed almost everywhere. My heart couldn't help itself as it raced along ignorant to the discussion we were currently having. When he looked at me, his eyes were near black, only an icy halo remaining.

"I'll hurt you. Do things to you. You don't know how dangerous I am."

"You've warned me already, yet here we are."

Sherlock pushed his nose hard against my hand again, heaving a breath, growling again as he exhaled. My hairs stood on end, but it was thrilling.

"You don't know my family. Our history. I want you, John Watson. In a way I never thought I'd want. You have indelibly touched my life. I cannot harm you."

I kissed the side of his face, little soft things offering comfort. I understood the confusion; would most likely deal with my own later that night. For now though, this was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened in my life until this point and I was not going to let it just slip away.

"Take it slow, obviously." I offered.

He nodded, but I felt him beginning to withdraw. "You need to tend to that. I need to go home. Now."

There was urgency, almost something regretful.

Car lights flashed across the window. "Soon, John, come meet my family. Say yes."

I kissed him softly once more. "Yes."

We broke apart just as dad opened the door. I went to the sink and washed my hands while Sherlock began chopping the rest of the carrots and parsnips.

"Oi, John, and who do we have here?" Greg smiled widely and clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Company for dinner?"

"We were going to study, but I started dinner- cut myself- all bandaged up, but Sherlock's got to get home soon."

"Him going home have anything to do with the bit of blood on his shoulder? Now, don't get all out of shape, or shocked, I am a detective after all. You're old enough, possibly, just-" Greg rubbed at his neck turning a shade I'd never witnessed before. "Look, just be careful."

"Actually, Greg, I was wondering if I may have John up to ours this weekend? To meet everyone?" Sherlock looked completely sincere, almost formal. "And if I may escort him to the dance?"

"Bloody hell-"

"Really?"

Greg and I spoke in unison and then looked at one another and laughed.

"If John has said yes, then of course. We aren't Victorians and you aren't in danger around here, not with your dad being who he is and me being the D.I. round these parts."

All I heard was a thin high wine after those words. I had to blink a few times as everything got blurry; not a second later Sherlock was holding me and Greg was shouting about calling 999 and something about my head. It was as if I were in cotton wool fighting my way out. Just a garden variety panic attack scaring the wits out of my dad and my boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

When had that happened?

"I'm alright. I am." Far from it actually, but I wasn't about to be the swooning maiden in this romantic comedy even if it was a bit Shakespearian and possibly broody like a certain Dane I'd read about. I certainly wasn't dying for anyone. "I just need to breathe, it's the blood. Makes me woozy is all."

Smooth John. Cracking.

Greg fixed me with a firm stare but must have decided to let it go. "Alright, up you get. Sherlock, you got him, he's at least a stone heavier than you."

But yet, Sherlock pulled me up as easily as he had stopped the car. Almost as if I weighed nothing. I found him looking at me, his eyes gone back almost normal, as if her were searching for something. Some hint as to what I was thinking. Not like I'd said it out loud.

"Yes, I'd like to meet them. Properly. So that way we know one another." I was almost pink to the tips of my ears. I was certain. "And I'm going to shut it now. Dad, want to go clean up while I finish dinner? I'm okay. No brain damage."

He gave us a rueful smile. "I know when a son is trying to shoo his old da away to sneaky kiss. Not like I've not done it myself, mind. Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock and I both looked at one another. It felt so new, so delicate. I was terrified.

"My sister is here to pick me up." His eyes strayed to the window behind my shoulder. "I need to go."

"Oh, okay." I nodded as I righted myself to stand fully on my own again.

Sherlock bent and kissed my cheek sweetly. "Sweet dreams, John."

It didn't occur to me to ask him how he knew or if he knew until he was already gone.

The next few days flew past, and yes people did talk. But not to us. But again, we weren't an us at school, only after class was out for the day. It was rapidly becoming habit for Sherlock to wait by my car end of day, so much so that he had ridden in a Landrover to school with his family instead of driving himself. It felt ridiculous to be happy about something so small, but it seemed as if Sherlock was trying to show that he cared in his own way. When he wasn't berating me for being an idiot in maths, but then he'd soothed it by claiming everyone was an idiot, but I was most certainly not incompetent as them, but more or less non-honed.

Critical thinking, he said, understanding what everyone gave off in everyday life, how to filter it. Distill it to its finest points. These are things he lived for. I wondered if he would one day be a D.I., like dad. Maybe a pathologist. Two doctors, wouldn't that be something.

And then my brain would stop.

Why was I thinking like this? It had only been a couple of days since the Incident in the Kitchen with the Knife by Myself and I was going to meet his family and I'm already marrying him in my brain. Ridiculous romantic drivel. Though, if my life before coming here had been a dirge, now it was a waltz. Twirling, and colourful, full of life set at a pace where you can catch your breath, but only just.

The second time I most certainly did not faint was at his home. This, too, was In the Kitchen, but with a Glass Bowl and done by His Mother and it most certainly had nothing to do with bloodshed, but rather lack there of. And here I had though we had been dancing along quite smoothly, who knew I'd feel like I was cotton wooled again and react the way I did. It was no one's fault. Sherlock would even had called it logical if he wasn't the one worrying over me and barking at his father to help.

Chapter Text

As I came to myself, Sherlock was glaring daggers at his father who, himself, was wearing a small smile even if Sherlock was being insolent. This was terrible. Embarrassing. How stupid was it for me to go into shock over a bowl hitting the ground. I hope I hadn't ruined tea for everyone, fainting like that. I wasn't some poncy sheltered twat that wilted at- oh. Well, yes blood did affect me, but the bulk of the thought still held merit. I knew I was blushing scarlet but I had to sit up and calm down and not make more of a spectacle than I already had.

"I'm fine." Is what came out of my mouth as my mind continued to whirl. "Really. I don't know what happened."

"The glass. It shattering, specifically," Sherlock shared a look with his father. "Or, it's what my father suspects."

"It's the most logical, of course, John. There is nothing wrong with it, your reaction. The sound is tied to a traumatic experience that is still fresh in your mind." Mr Holmes' voice was calm and sure. "How do you feel?"

I was positive it was his 'doctor' voice; the type meant to soothe.

I was not mollified.

"I'm fine, really. Really. Just- thank you." I looked to Sherlock, who was still holding me close, but now in a more supported sitting position. "I've got it, just startled. See?"

The smile from him was radiant. "Yes, at least father gives you a full bill of health."

We all stood then, and I felt another rush of embarrassment at my reaction, but swiftly shoved it to the side. At least the rest of the family hadn't been in there to witness it.

"Where are the rest of your family?" I had realised then that I hadn't noticed the Landrover outside, and really only Sherlock and his parents must be home. "Will they be here later?"

There was a quick shared glance between Mr Holmes and Sherlock before Mrs Holmes spoke.

"They went hiking early this morning." She smiled sweetly towards me. "With the weather better than it has been they wanted an early start on the chance it turned by afternoon, they should be home by evening." Mr Holmes joined her across the kitchen and then whispered something in her ear. Her smile brightened. "We'll leave you two to your own devices, we'll just be up in the study. Mycroft and I have already had something; bit of a late lunch. Be good children."

"Well, tea then?" Sherlock had that same smile once again, one that I hoped I would see more often as he loaded a large silver tray with the teapot, two cups and various treats from the small assortment. "We can take it to my room. They won't mind. Young love, all that. My parents are not only sentimentalists but romantics at heart. I'd not understood the reasoning behind it until recently."

"Is this your way of saying you fancy me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Obvious," He came close, his hands laden with the tea tray he'd assembled. "If the kiss hadn't spoken of my desire, I'd hoped the want for you to meet my family, to be proof."

He sounded almost formal. Unsure.

"Sherlock, I'm glad. I fancy you, too." I could hardly whisper the words for the weight of the truth of them. "It's not something- this is just new."

And it was. Feeling like this for anyone, and so quickly. Even though it had been weeks since our initial meeting in class, we hadn't exactly been best mates. I resolved myself to follow this though, even if I was half terrified by the strength of my own feelings. I followed Sherlock up the back stairs from the kitchen to his room. It faced west with a brilliant view of the countryside and forest not far beyond. I realised then that half of his room was glass walled, at least it appeared as such until I noticed a very thin strip all they way around of very old brick. Possibly original. I began to realize the age and history of the home and felt out of place. This was a grand manor, and here I was in it. The things these walls must have seen in their time.

"You are very welcome here, John." Sherlock had come up behind me, his hands rested at my hips. "You always will be."

I relaxed against him and took in the rest of the room; it really was more of a studio. Very spacious with natty flourished wall coverings, velvet curtains, but hodgepodged furnishings. One wall full of books only interrupted by a very modern device dock and CD player that looked more art than anything, a desk shoved sort of against it, at an angle. Couple of miss-matched chairs, again one more crowded against the wall.

"It's like your own little world in here isn't it?"

"Practically perfect in every way." He quipped against my ear.

I swallowed hard, deciding to ignore the heat of his breath against my skin. "Your room? I would hope-"

"Not my room, John. You."

"Me?" I turned my face toward his. "Perfect? Hardly."

"I did say practically," He turned me then, closer, then claimed my lips.

It was a claiming, that I knew, and I accepted. I'd jumped both feet and was giddy with it. His arm holding me solidly against him, his other hand against my cheek slipping down to caress my jaw and neck, landing against my pulse; the sharp staccato even more pronounced against his fingertips. It was flying and I was soaring along with it, the thrill of his lips against mine, his mouth slowly opening, little sips of my lips, deeper kisses teased at. I was in the clouds and this had to be Heaven. Sherlock, my own personal angel. He bloody well looked like one, especially now, as I turned in his arms, the afternoon light filtering in. He positively glowed. Ethereal.

Our hands wandered slowly, as we backed up against the large scrolled arm couch. It held about a hundred pillows of various sizes, but my god, did if form my body to his when he laid on top of me. Still clothed, this felt just this side of right. Not too much, but certainly edging the line. Sherlock seemed to sense that and laughed softly, breaking our kissing, but not moving otherwise.

"I know this is a little late, but this is alright, yes?"

I giggled then, full of what I only assumed was joy. It was new. All of it was.

"Yes, this, this is just right." I cheekily moved my hand lower to his hip and held there. "Practically perfect in every way."

"John," Whispering my name against my skin, his lips followed where his fingers had been, his hand now roaming along my shoulder, down my arm. "There are things, about myself, I am selfish. I meant what I said about it being dangerous-"

"And yet, here I am, still." I moaned as I purposely rubbed against him, bucking my hips so that it just caught his erection with my own. "With you here. Alone. I- trust you, Sherlock."

He made a small noise and brushed hard against my throat as he returned the slow grind. I could feel the temptation of teeth against it as Sherlock breathed heavily, his own hum of satisfaction felt against my chest, but nothing came of it as he changed direction to fully own my mouth in the most wonderful of ways. Our bodies found a rhythm, nothing to rough, but earnest, as my hands roamed his back and his halo of curls. God, if that didn't feel wonderful. Sherlock's own finding their own way to my hips, then my arse, then back up again to brush against my chest. I finally gathered the courage and loosely wrapped a leg around his thigh. I whispered between us, the words coming out of my mouth were only his to know. Sherlock buried his nose at my throat and exhaled against my skin.

It was bliss.

Gripping at his shirt, blushing so hard my ears rang, I came right to the edge. Sherlock whispered back, his voice yanking somewhere low at my gut as he spoke. The sweetest things were coming out of his mouth as he clasped my hip, his elbow giving him counterpoint to push me over. I felt the deep tug, the pull of orgasm and prayed I wasn't shouting out. Our mouths found each other again. Sherlock continued to slowly rock against me, pressing kisses, talking softly as I came back to myself.

"I- just," Reality slammed into me and I stilled.

"Yes, you did. We did." His smile was soft. Unguarded. "Was it alright?"

"Alright?"

My mind was buzzing and I was almost sick with it. All I could hear was my step-father's voice, then Mary's. I couldn't breathe, but I refused to let go.

"John?" Sherlock laid his chest back towards me, but shifted the rest of himself to the side. Lacing our finger together he sighed. "I hope I haven't pushed-"

"No, you haven't," I swallowed, the gravity of everything coming to the surface. "We haven't; it may be a little soon, but maybe not for us?"

I brought my hands comfortably to rest against his back as we spoke. The intimacy was not lost on me. This was more than I had ever expected, this feeling of contentment. I closed my eyes and just relaxed; I refused to feel shameful over a shared orgasm with someone I cared about.

"Possibly not." His fingers were brushing my hair. It was frivolous. "Everyone will be here soon, we should get you sorted."

"You aren't going to?"

"I was hoping later, after we've gone back down," His eyes were almost mournful. "You may not wish to, continue with me afterward, after what I say."

"Don't do this, we've just had a wonderful thing happen." Kissing him is as easy as breathing, I find. "I don't want to give this up when we've just found it. We'll talk after I meet everyone? I understand, Sherlock. It's hard, to shut things up in your head. It's not very pleasant in mine at the moment," I sat up and moved away first, going towards the bathroom. "But the thought of you, it helps."