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Sherlock could feel the breath leave his lungs as the thug in front of him drove his fist into Sherlock’s diaphragm. A choked grunt escaped his lips as he fell to his knees, arms wrapped around himself protectively.
A shadow looms over him, “Oh Sherly, when are you going to give up and make things easier on yourself?”
Out of sheer stubbornness alone, Sherlock makes sure to maintain eye contact with Jim Moriarty, “I can do this all day.” He drawled.
Jim rolled his eyes, bored with the apparent theatrics, “Lovely as that sounds, I have a game to watch. Well, I have a player to watch, but what’s the difference?” With that, Jim turned and began to make his way to the field where the school’s rugby team was having their playoff game, “Do take care of him, Sebby.”
The thug (Sebastian, Sherlock’s mind supplied) didn’t say anything, but then again, he never did. Instead, he merely nodded at Jim’s order before throwing over his shoulder like a sack of dirty laundry. Sherlock tried to wrestle his way away from Jim’s pet caveman, but the larger teen had a firm grip on him.
Sherlock knew where they were going; it was the same place Jim always had his thug put Sherlock. The dumpster behind the school’s far entrance, the farthest place from the game as they could get. Friday, while being game day for the rugby team, was also trash day, which meant that there was no garbage in the dumpster.
That also meant that there was nothing to soften Sherlock’s fall when Sebastian dropped him inside before slamming the lid closed. Sherlock could hear the muscle-head moving a weight over the lid. In actuality, it was a large rock that was always nearby, but it served the same purpose of rendering Sherlock unable to get out on his own.
Just like every other time he had tried to watch one of John’s games.
Sherlock let out a stream of curses when he heard the muffled sound of the announcer making calls on the game. He should be watching John, not hearing about it. It was so frustrating at times.
The cynical part of him wondered why he bothered trying. Moriarty had made it very clear that if Sherlock tried to watch John (his “Johnny boy”), he would suffer.
But the more quiet, less often used part of him reminded him that this was John: the exception to their every rule. Ever since the rugby player had deemed Sherlock’s deductions on their English teacher “fantastic” (but really, it should have been obvious that Mrs. Wilson was having a string of affairs with several of their other teachers), John had managed to worm his way into Sherlock’s life.
And maybe more, but Sherlock wouldn’t admit it.
Time seemed to stretch forever inside the dumpster, but Sherlock could clearly understand what was going on with the game, and how much time had passed. He knew it was halftime when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Where are you? JW
Sherlock sighed, sending a quick text back.
Moriarty found me. I’m in my usual spot. SH
The dumpster? JW
I just said that. SH
Just wanted to be sure. On my way. JW
Sherlock bit his lip as he read John’s last message. There was just something about the other teen that was so…foreign to Sherlock.
The sound of scraping alerted Sherlock to the fact that John was currently removing the rock that kept Sherlock imprisoned. He tried to look dignified (as dignified as one could after being in a dumpster for nearly an hour) as John lifted the lid.
“Thank goodness Moriarty isn’t that creative when he hides you, eh?” John gave Sherlock a small smile, offering his hand to Sherlock as the lanky teen climbed his way out of the dumpster. And though Sherlock tried to hide his discomfort, John could see the pain on Sherlock’s face, “How bad did he rough you up this time?”
“He didn’t touch me.” Sherlock answered drily, “His pet gorilla on the other hand…”
John rolled his eyes, “I would ask if you need to see the nurse, but even if you did, you’d lie to me and I’d have to patch you up after the game regardless.”
“I am rather fond of that part.” Sherlock admitted, walking alongside John back to the field.
“Of course you are.” John smirked, “So, shall we go to Angelo’s after the game? Or did you want to order in while you crash on my bed?”
A smile threatened to crawl across Sherlock’s face, “I suppose we’ll have to see how hungry you are after you win this game.”
John chuckled, “I’m not even starting this half, Sherlock. I’m not that good.”
“Your coach is simply an idiot.” Sherlock nodded as if stating a simple fact (which he was).
And if he relished the laughter that sounded from John, well, that was his secret.