DID SOMEBODY SAY TEEN BALLET!LOCK/RUGBYPLAYER!JOHN??
Okay so I saw this wonderful piece by shootbadcabbies and my hand slipped. Like 12k slipped. But I figure I owe her for all the torment I’ve put her through with My Heart Is True As Steel, plus, look at how cute they are!! So, here is my attempt at ballet!lock/rugby!john. I’ll start at the beginning and then put a link to the rest at the bottom, as well as the top if you click through the title (which is the biggest cliche, I know, but, god help me, I couldn’t help myself).
Pas de Deux
Sherlock looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, a reassuring gesture even though he had already memorized the numbers.
16, 7, 3
He huffed, not quite enough derision left in him for another full-bodied snort. When he had said he wanted to be moved as far away from Andrew Hornigutt as possible, he hadn’t been speaking literally, but the secretary in the office had it out for him ever since he had revealed that her husband was having an affair with the barista at the local coffee shop, so she had simply clicked her red varnish and smacked her red lips and grinned at him with a poisonous promise that it would be taken care of.
Which was how Sherlock Holmes found himself walking to a locker at the very end of the Year 13 corridor in the sixth form section of the secondary school that amounted to a private wing where angels—or at least Year 11s like himself—feared to tread. Not that he was afraid, of course.
He hitched his shoulder bag up a little higher, checking the numbers again. They remained the same: Locker 221, combination 16, 7, 3. Surely it couldn’t be much further. Glancing up to his right, he watched as the odd numbers steadily climbed, focusing on the shifting digits instead of the curious eyes. Finally, he found it, and, after fumbling a bit and having to restart, flung open the black locker door, a small but present barrier between him and the whispers. It wasn’t that he cared what they said, but it did wreak havoc on one’s concentration when mutterings of your name kept pulling you out of your thoughts, and there were certainly plenty of mutterings. No more than usual, however—the typical politically incorrect slurs and jeers—and Sherlock, for the most part, put it out of his mind.
He swung his bag around to the floor in front of him, placing it over his polished shoes. Slowly, he began unloading the little he had needed to move from his old locker, taking care not to accidentally pull out the wrapped bundle as he removed his books.
“Hey,” greeted a voice from just the opposite side of his fortress wall, startling him into dropping the notebooks he had been preparing to stack inside. “Oh, shit, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare ya.”
“You didn’t,” Sherlock muttered, kneeling to the floor to begin gathering the books and scattered papers that had sprung loose from them.
A small chuckle drifted down to him, coming closer as the generator bent beside him on the floor. “So you just make a habit of dropping things when people say hello?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes down at his chemistry homework as he slid the sheet just inside the front cover of the blue notebook. “I find it often discourages further conversation,” he snapped, but the voice only chuckled again.
“And how’s that working out for ya?”
“At present? Not particularly…well…” Sherlock blinked, lips hovering open before he had the presence of mind to snap them shut and swallow hard, dropping his head again, because the boy kneeling down on the ground beside him, tan hands helping swipe Sherlock’s notes off the floor, was none other than John Watson. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, cheerleader-dating, straight-A-making John Watson, captain of the rugby team and of every girl’s daydreams.
Sherlock was going to tell the secretary about her husband’s previous affair with the nanny after all, he decided.
John ‘Golly gee willikers!’ Watson beamed at him, and Sherlock tried fiercely to overrule his brain’s command to his palms to start sweating. “Yeah, well, we all have off-days,” he shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Here.” He held out the pile of Sherlock’s papers—all out of order, but Sherlock wasn’t inclined to mention it. “Looks like some pretty hard stuff. What are you taking?”
“Separate Sciences,” Sherlock replied, a little softer than intended as he took the offered pages, tucking them away inside whichever notebook his hand found first, “and all the usual ones as well.”
John tilted his head, a puzzled crease forming between his brows, and then his face stretched with realization. “Oh, you’re from the lower school, yeah? Not sixth form?”
Sherlock nodded, John following as he pushed to his feet. He was not as tall as Sherlock had thought whenever he had seen him from a distance. Sherlock was actually taller, albeit only by a couple inches, but he was still growing. “Year 11,” he replied, not entirely sure why he was still indulging this conversation. He usually made his insults and then escapes by now.
John smiled again, and the decision suddenly made a lot more sense.
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