Saturday, 18 February 2012
06:08:21 PM (GMT)
Sat in his usual place for maths, Sherlock gazed out the window, writing the word
'Bored' in the back of his exercise book over and over without looking, his
elaborately joined up handwriting nearly flowing off the page at points. The lesson
hadn't even started yet.
The clique of popular boys ambled in about ten minutes late, John Watson in the
centre of the gang, and the only one who looked vaguely concerned about their timing.
Well, he would be. His father was in the army. They took their places; most of the
back row and the table behind Sherlock's, and the middle aged man began his lesson,
which was Sherlock's cue to continue with his writing and staring out of the window.
Aproximately half way through the lesson, he felt a small ball of squared paper hit
his hands, which were pressed together, his fingertips brushing against his upper
lip. He frowned, picking the paper up, and knowing who it was from by the
"Already memorised the syllabus, freak?"
The pale boy rolled his eyes, pushing the paper aside, but he had barely steepled his
fingers together when two more flew over, one landing on his book, the other on his
"Help me wierdo. At lunch. I'll give u my books after class." Sherlock
frowned at the lack of educated grammar in the note, and discarded it, looking at the
other, his frown deepening. He didn't recognise this writing.
"They think I'm writing something mean. I'm John, hello!"
He turned, regarding John with curiosity, then glaring at the rat-faced boy next to
him. Anderson, leader of the 'popular' kids. His gaze fell back to John, reading
He had a kind face, although he wasn't smiling now, and deep, chocolatey brown eyes.
Smudges of blue biro ink on his cheek from where he had leant on his hand, and the
same ink at the corner of his mouth. Clearly, maths wasn't one of his favourite
subjects, even if he was good at it. Writing in biro rather than pencil, so he was
confident in his abilities, but he'd been chewing his pen, so boredom. He could
relate completely. His sixth form attire was crisply ironed, by him, judging by his
fingertips, but his shirt wasn't a pure white, so it most likely had a previous
owner. His father, judging by the creases down the sleeves, and the fact that John
had reironed the creases in indicated that he was proud of him. But he was dead.
All John's clothes were handed down, and his father wouldn't need them now. And he
was in the army, as previously deduced...
Sherlock turned back to his book, ripping out a page and scrawling a reply to John's
"Afghanistan or Iraq?