Chapter Text
It started on a normal Monday morning. Except this Monday morning wasn't the same as your normal Monday morning in the life of one John Watson, age 17. This Monday morning was the first Monday morning that John noticed. And once he'd noticed, he couldn't stop noticing.
The boy was new, he'd just transferred to John's school right at the beginning of term. Some kind of genius, so the whispers went, and it must've been true because even though he was a couple of years younger the boy had started straight into the advanced classes. It'd only been a week but it seemed this new boy wasn't much for making friends. John felt a little guilty at that; he didn't even know the boy's name. Something posh though, from what he'd heard in the hallways. He'd glimpsed the boy before but it was a big school with lots of kids and he'd never really paid a lot of attention. His own group of friends was quite small; just Mike, who shared his ambition of becoming a doctor and incidentally, his desk in chemistry. And Greg, who he'd known since they were four. Then there was Phil, Carl, Vic, Seb and Tim from the rugby team, but he wasn't really close to any of them.
It must be difficult, he thought absently, to start a new school so close to finishing and going off to uni. He couldn't imagine what it would be like, coming into a year group where everyone had pretty much grown up together and knew each other. Still, someone should make the effort to welcome the new boy. John liked to think he would've done it, if he hadn't been so busy. He had a lot on his plate this term what with playing rugby and studying to get the marks he'd need for medical school, not to mention his part-time job, his chores and looking after Mum. And Harry, sort of. Which reminded him, he'd have to take the glass bottles that had accumulated over the weekend to the recycling point at the back of Tesco one night this week.
Dr Bradstreet, the head of science, cleared her throat and began talking about isotopes, shaking John from his thoughts. Chemistry wasn't his favourite subject but he did alright and he knew he'd need excellent grades in all his sciences for his foundation medicine course at Bart's. Dr Bradstreet was directing them to turn to page 394 in their textbooks when the door suddenly opened and the new boy walked in. Dr Bradstreet frowned at the interruption.
"This class starts at 9am," she said sharply, "you're late."
The new boy flicked his gaze confidently around the room, never seeming to settle on anyone or anything for longer than a few seconds, then tilted his head as he turned back to the teacher.
"Yes, and? I'm here now, aren't I?" he said. Half of the class snickered and the other half looked at each other worriedly at this display of impertinence. Dr Bradstreet sighed.
"Take a seat, now, you're being disruptive," she pointed to where the rest of the class were sitting and waiting to see what came next, "and turn to page 394." The boy merely smirked and started towards the desks to take his seat. John was briefly startled to see the boy walking towards him. The boy took the only empty place directly in front of John, pulled out his textbook and immediately bent forward over it. And that's when John noticed.
The boy had thick, dark hair which curled in loose ringlets around his ears and the nape of his neck. His hair was longer than most of the boys in school but not overly long. The brown waves caught the autumn sunlight as it streamed through the classroom window and John could pick out hints of auburn, gleaming gently as the boy moved his head while he read. John was mesmerised, and immediately wanted to reach out and brush his hands over the curls to see if they were as soft as they looked.
He belatedly realised he was supposed to be paying attention to isotopes and he tore his eyes away from that enticing mop of curls and back to his textbook. He ignored Mike's elbow in his ribs and tried to concentrate, but his eyes kept wandering back to the curly head in front of him. The rest of the class passed in something of a blur and before he knew it, John was being shuffled out of the chemistry lab and towards his French class. He laughed at Mike's good natured ribbing about his lack of attention, throwing an elbow as they jostled briefly in the hallway.
"Come on, Jean," Mike teased, "we 'aff to get to ze French class. Zere are many words we must learn if we are to be, 'ow you say, seducing ze girls?"
"Yeah, yeah," John said distractedly, "ze girls."
Mike shrugged. "And ze boys, if zat is what you like," he murmured quietly. John blinked at him for a moment, feeling the beginnings of a blush creep onto his face. He stuttered a noncommittal reply and followed Mike to French, forcing himself not to watch out for a tall boy with luscious dark curls.
---
From that Monday morning, John kept catching himself not paying the slightest bit of attention in chemistry. He'd gone from being nearly top of the class to barely scraping through. All because of the boy in front of him.
He finally managed to catch the boy's name after a couple of weeks and it was as posh as he'd thought. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Sherlock, as John had taken to calling him in his head (anything was better than "curls" and William somehow just didn't feel right), was utterly brilliant. Unfortunately he was also something of an utter arsehole. He routinely corrected Dr Bradstreet and when he wasn't complaining about the idiocy of his classmates, John included, he was doing his own thing with the experiments they'd been assigned. And that was when he did actually attend class, his absences causing Dr Bradstreet to sigh almost as much as his appearances. Secretly John thought Sherlock was quite right about them all being idiots in comparison, though he didn't care much for Sherlock's flagrant disregard of the truancy rules.
And yet, despite his patchy attendance record and his arrogance and his tendency to piss off both the teachers and his peers, John found himself fascinated by the new boy. He'd wondered about the school Sherlock had been at before (posh, no doubt), what he did in his free time (more chemistry?), where he lived, if he liked sports (unlikely), who he hung out with after the last bell on a Friday afternoon.
Well, that last one was easy enough to answer. Despite having been at the school for a couple of months now, Sherlock didn't seem to have made any friends. John often wondered how lonely it must be, not to have anyone to talk to, to muck about with, to tease about girls. And maybe... Boys too?
So far Mike and Greg were the only ones John thought had noticed, and neither of them had said anything outright. John hadn't expected them to, but was grateful that he wasn't being forced to explicitly state it out loud. He could say it to himself in his head though. Yes, he fancied boys too. He wondered what that meant, that he liked both boys and girls in that way. He wondered if there were any other boys at school who felt like that. He wondered if there were any boys at school who were gay. Statistically there must be, but who? He wondered if Sherlock could maybe possibly perhaps be... Like that? He wondered, and somewhere along the line wondering turned to hoping.
Sherlock had apparently had plenty of offers but had turned them all down. Irene Adler had supposedly asked him out one day. He'd politely but firmly declined. At least, that was one version. The more salacious version was that Sherlock and Irene had hooked up her room one weekend but she'd kicked him out when he couldn't get her off. John didn't think that version was true, but it didn't stop the hot spike of jealousy he felt whenever he spotted Irene's neat bun in the canteen at lunchtime.
There was another rumour that Sherlock was shagging Molly Hooper, the pretty girl Mike had had a crush on for ages but was too chicken to do anything about. John didn't think that one was true either, mostly because Sherlock barely seemed to notice Molly's attentions at all.
Not that John spent his time noticing Sherlock noticing anyone else, of course. He was busy, too busy, far too busy to be looking out for a tall boy with dark hair every second of every minute of every school day since that first week. That's what he kept telling himself, and Mike and Greg when they brought up how his eyes and mind wandered in class and at lunch and at rugby and...
Well, alright, maybe he was allowing himself to become a bit distracted. But he was still doing very well. His biology and physics grades were superb, his French not so much but that was ok. It was extra credit anyway, it didn't matter as long as he passed. His maths and English were as good as they'd always been.
Chemistry though, his chemistry was slipping. He'd just about managed to scrape a decent mark in one of the class tests last week, but he knew he had to knuckle down if he wanted to get a good mark in the prelim exams coming up. He'd never been exceptionally strong at the subject but the contrast of pale skin and mahogany curls directly in front of him were continuing to make it difficult to concentrate.
He knew he was in for some bother when Dr Bradstreet asked him to stay behind after class one day.
"Sit down, John" the teacher said kindly, gesturing to the chair beside her desk. John sat down carefully and waited.
"Is everything alright, John?" Dr Bradstreet asked. "Only, you were doing reasonably well in this class until recently and I can't help but notice that you seem to be having a hard time concentrating."
John tried not to flush and bit his lip. Yes, he was having a hard time concentrating but the reason wasn't anything he wanted his teacher to know about.
"I'm fine," he said, hoping his tone was somewhat lighter than he currently felt.
"Are you sure?" Dr Bradstreet said. "You know we're here to help you, right? With anything at all?"
John nodded and lapsed into silence again. He neither needed nor wanted his chemistry teacher's help. They sat for a moment and John avoided his teacher's eyes. She sighed and leaned forward, her voice going soft as she spoke.
"John? Is everything alright... At home?"
The question threw John off a bit, and he frowned, a bitter anger swirling suddenly in his gut. He gritted his teeth at the implication in that. Yes, his mum had had a tough time since the divorce. But he was taking care of them, they were managing. It was fine, it was all fine. And anyway, it was none of Dr Bradstreet's business.
"It's okay John, you can tell me," Dr Bradstreet told him. John just stared harder at the floor until she sighed again and turned away, rustling papers on her desk.
"Okay, it's okay," she said in the same soft, placating tone. John was itching to escape now, and he glanced surreptitiously at the door. Dr Bradstreet cleared her throat.
"I won't keep you any longer, John, I just wanted to check in with you. And to let you know that if your marks keep sliding like this, you're going to have trouble getting into that Bart's course I know you have your heart set on."
John nodded, even though he already knew all this. He had a free period next and he fully intended to spend it in the library, going over his chemistry notes to revise for the prelim exam. He opened his mouth to say so when Dr Bradstreet cut him off in his tracks.
"Which is why I've assigned you a tutor."
John gaped. A tutor?! He didn't need a tutor, he just needed a bit of time to catch up and he'd be fine.
"Who?" He managed to ask.
"William Holmes, he's going to tutor you," she said easily, as if John's stomach hadn't just fallen out of his arse.
"He'll meet you in the library, he has a free period just now, same as you. Might as well get started, if you're going to be prepared for the prelim. Off you pop!" With that, she gestured to the door and John was dismissed. He stood up, grabbing his bag and closing the door behind him. He huffed a laugh to himself as he headed for the library.
Sherlock Holmes was going to tutor him in chemistry. If he hadn't been screwed before, he definitely was now.
---
Sherlock was waiting for him in the library. It was quiet, not many students having a free period right before lunch on a Wednesday. John spotted his (gorgeous) curls on the far side of the room and ducked behind the nearest shelf to compose himself for a moment.
How was he going to play this? From everything he knew about Sherlock Holmes going all gooey at him was likely to result in either instant dismissal or blissful ignorance of John’s intentions. And more to the point, what exactly were John’s intentions? Passing chemistry again, that’s for certain. But a small part of him hoped that Sherlock would enjoy teaching him, that they’d get on and maybe become friends. If it went so far as mutual agreement that they could stand to be in one another’s company for more than thirty seconds and they could manage pleasant conversation, John might even go so far as to see if there wasn’t anything more he could offer than friendship. If Sherlock wasn't like that, then he’d settle for friends. Just friends would be fine, he’d get over his silly crush. Eventually. The boy was brilliant, he deserved to have a least one friend to text and email and meet up with in the holidays and tell about uni and so on.
John glanced around his shelf to see Sherlock gazing out of the window to his right. His tangled hair was catching the sunlight again, the coppery hints in the curls glowing warmly. His eyes were bright but somehow sad, and his mouth. His mouth looked soft but almost wistful. His profile was striking and unusual, with those sculpted cheekbones, and he had an overall air of effortless elegance to him, even just sitting looking out of a school library window. John wondered how he’d never noticed just how beautiful Sherlock was. Too busy only thinking about his hair, his brain supplied helpfully. Fuck off, he told it.
Drawing a breath and squaring his shoulders, determined not to make a total arse of himself with this amazing, gorgeous boy, John rounded the shelf and practically marched over to the table Sherlock was occupying, settling himself into the chair opposite.
Sherlock turned his head and suddenly that sad gaze became razor sharp as he took in all of John Watson (in his dubious glory). John sat still, steadfast under the microscope of Sherlock’s scrutiny. It was… Intense, to say the least, to be the focus of those wonderful eyes, but John was revelling in it. He felt stripped down, bare and raw. As if Sherlock could see him, all of him, in that single look. There was an honest openness in Sherlock’s appraisal, making John feel as though he were only looking because he was curious, not with any malicious intent. It was utterly thrilling.
Sherlock blinked a little and glanced away in a manner John might almost have deemed shy. Too quickly the openness John had glimpsed was shuttered away and an unwelcome aloofness draped itself over the features John was now admiring up close. His voice, when Sherlock spoke, was resonant and deeper than John felt any kid of their age had a right to.
“You’re late.”
John snorted. “Yeah well, I only just found out I had a tutor, so…” He said. Sherlock didn’t reply, just fixed John with a look of bored contempt. He flipped open his textbook and looked pointedly at John.
Oh yeah. Right.
John got out his own book and flicked to the page they’d been studying. He looked back up to see Sherlock watching him closely again. Undaunted, John stuck out his hand. A tiny line appeared between Sherlock’s brows as he frowned slightly, his eyes drawn down to John’s outstretched hand.
“John Watson,” John said lightly, and he smiled encouragingly. Sherlock cleared his throat and reached to shake John’s hand. Sherlock’s hands were quite frankly enormous, engulfing John’s for a very brief, perfunctory greeting, but they were warm and soft and John could feel callouses on his fingertips. He made a mental note to ask about those at some point.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock intoned. He sounded very bored. “Now, I hope you’re not a complete idiot or this will quickly become incredibly trying.”
John couldn’t help it; he laughed. Sherlock looked startled for a moment but schooled his face.
“I’ll do my best,” John said with mock seriousness. Sherlock huffed.
“We’ll see,” he said curtly, then immediately launched into a detailed explanation of redox reactions. John scrambled to keep up and began taking copious notes as Sherlock talked, trying not to lose his train of thought by watching his tutor instead of paying attention to the subject matter. That's was what had got him into trouble in the first place.
It was a long 45 minutes but for John it was over too quickly. He felt a bit overwhelmed but as though he now understood concepts he’d been struggling with much better following Sherlock’s somewhat terse explanations than he ever had with Dr Bradstreet.
The lunch bell interrupted Sherlock mid-flow and he stood abruptly, gathering his textbook into his leather satchel.
“Hey, wait a second!” John called, frantically picking up his things so he could follow Sherlock out of the library.
“Same time tomorrow?” John gasped, dropping his bag and upending his rugby kit all over the floor. He cursed and bent down to retrieve it.
“Fine,” he heard Sherlock reply. Sherlock paused in the doorway and turned slightly, his eyes cast downwards.
“You’re not a complete idiot,” he said, then he was gone.
---
John looked for Sherlock at lunchtime but he was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't really paying attention to Mike and Greg and the other lads as they sat down at their usual table, laughing and ribbing each other. He was thinking about his chemistry tutor; the way Sherlock’s eyes had lit up as he wrote down formulas and laid out the key concepts they’d been working on in class for John to absorb. He was terse, blunt and spoke at a ridiculous pace but John felt more confident in his knowledge after just that one 45 minute session. John was looking forward to spending more time with Sherlock, even if it was only to talk about chemistry.
“Helloooooo, Earth to John Watson,” Greg said cheekily, waving a hand in front of John’s face. “What’s got you all dreamy-eyed and slack-jawed then?”
John snorted and pushed Greg’s hand away from his face. “Nothing, nothing I’d care to tell you morons about, anyway,” he laughed, watching Greg’s mock pout droop even further down his face.
“Aw, c’mon Cap!” Vic said, elbowing Seb who in turn caught the attention of the rest of the rugby team. Expectant faces turned in John’s direction, and he fought the urge to look for that head of dark curls just one more time.
“Ah,” Seb said knowingly, and John suppressed an unbidden shiver at the sliminess of that simple syllable.
“What?” Vic asked, frowning. Seb just smirked and looked away towards the other side of the canteen, where Molly and her friends were sitting.
“John fancies Mary,” Seb announced, a cruel twist of his lips indicating just what kind of chance he thought John had with the most popular girl in school. His announcement was met with huffs and laughter from the rest of the team and John forced himself not to react.
“I don’t fancy Mary,” he mumbled into his sandwich, surer than ever that he didn’t want to talk to anyone but Mike and Greg about his crush on Sherlock.
Vic opened his mouth to make an undoubtedly caustic reply but was cut off by the bell ringing to signal the end of lunch and the start of afternoon classes. John hurriedly packed away his uneaten food and, before any of them could make further comment, dashed off to maths.
Tim caught up with him just as he reached the door and stopped him with a hand on his arm. John startled and stepped back to let the other kids into the classroom, curious as to what Tim wanted.
“John,” Tim said quietly. John’s patience was running out. He shrugged restlessly as Tim shuffled his feet.
“I know you don’t fancy Mary,” Tim told him softly, “and I know who you do fancy.”
John’s ears began to burn and he was sure he was turning an interesting shade of red but before he could respond Tim carried on.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell the others,” he whispered. He looked down at his feet sadly and then, shaking off whatever had made his shoulders slump like that, he took off down the hallway to his art class.
Unsure of what to make of anything that had just happened, John stumbled into maths and buried himself in quadratic equations until hometime.
---