And Together We Fell (prev. "Teenlock") - An AU Sherlock/Johnlock Fanfic

Chapter 6

JOHN'S P.O.V

I idly drew footballs in my French book as my teacher repeated the same French phrase for the sixth time. I sighed miserably. I looked at the clock. Godammit, 40 minutes to go. I looked out of the window at the school pitch, knowing all I'll have to wait is 40 minutes and I'll be outside playing football for the first time here. I lowered my gaze to the work I was supposedly doing, when my eyes caught on a piece of graffiti on my table. GL 4 MH. I half-smiled; at least someone was in a better mood than I. My gaze drifted to the door, and I jumped slightly as I saw Sherlock Holmes striding to the door.

He knocked a couple of times, then came in.

"Madame Abel, puis-je prendre John Watson hors de la classe?" His French was fluent, but I was startled when I heard my name.

"Pourqoi?"

"Il est pour m'aider avec ma mission pour M. Dower." I had already heard that Mr Dower was a notorious teacher, and even the teachers didn't argue with him. Madame Abel nodded his head, then threw her hand towards the door, letting me go. I grabbed my school bag and threw it on. I was barely out of the door when the first question came flying out of my mouth.

"Why... what are you doing?"

"I'm helping both you and me, so come on." He was short, and strode on further down the hallway.

"No, but I was... um... I was--" I protested, my legs also protesting in keeping up with his long strides.

"You were staring out of the window, obviously bored, and waiting until you could play football. I hardly think that trumps what I've got in mind."

"... Oh."

He turned a corner into the English foyer.

"What have you got in mind, then?" I asked him, still completely clueless as to why he took me out of class.

"Doesn't matter. I'll talk when we get in the cab."

"In the...?"

"Come ON!" He sounded a tad impatient, so I hurried on and followed him out into the school gates. A couple of teachers patrolling appeared out of nowhere dishevelled, but Sherlock showed them some kind of pass quickly and they let him through. "Had a pass made through my brother's contacts. Not supposed to have them until next year, but still works." I silently questioned what other forbidden ideas had formulated in his obviously intellectual mind. We walked to the end of the road, and he stuck his arm out immediately calling a cab. He nodded at the driver, who nodded back, and said "Saint Bart's."

"What, isn't Saint Bart's a..."

"A hospital, yes. Also a morgue, where my friend is a trainee- pathology lab assistant. She's only 16, but I'm sure she'll let me see Carl."

"Pathology... Carl... wait, Sherlock, are we going to see a--"

"A dead body, yes."

Silence filled the cab. The cabbie, however, was unmoved by this new piece of revelation.

"Okaaaay then..." I said into the silence, drawing it out.

Another silence, but this once lasted a minute.

"By the way Sherlock, how did you know all that stuff, about my dad, and Harry, and all of that?"

He sighed, irritated. "I didn't know, I observed."

"Okay, then. What did you observe?" I was eager to find out what he actually had done to find it out.

 Sherlock looked over at me, then began to speak.

"When you handed me your phone the first thing I saw was the backgound picture, which was one of you, your dad and your mum. Your dad was in army uniform and was sun-tanned, so Afghanistan or Iraq. Both the smell of booze on your back when I handed you your sandwiches and the beer can in his hand says that he drank; if he was in service he'd be out there, but he's not, so he got discharged, maybe drinking, maybe fighting.

"Then there's your brother. Your phone — it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're just a teenager with an alcoholic for a dad, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

I paused, open mouthed, and slowly brought out the phone out of my pocket. I turned it over: "Harry Watson — from Clara xxx".

"The engraving?"

"Harry Watson — clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father — this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but it's unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara — who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says long-term girlfriend, not wife, probably not old enough. Must've given it to him recently — this model's only six months old. Relationship in trouble, then — six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it — he left her. But the most recent text from him says he was going to pick you up with Clara, suggesting they're back together again. But you've ignored a few of his texts, so maybe you don't want to talk to him, which suggests he ignored you previously and now regrets it, which also works with him giving you his phone; which told me he was an alcoholic."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

He half-smiled, then continued. "A shot in the dark-- a good one though. Power connection — tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. I said he was an alcoholic, because he obviously would have wanted to improve his image for his girlfriend now he's back together with her." He finished with an air of power, and all I could do was gaze at him in wonder.

"That... was... amazing."

He hesitated, the tiniest look of glee on his face before resuming his deadpan mask. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary."

He looked away for a moment, before looking back at me. "That's... not what people usually say."

"Why, what do they say?"

"'Piss off!'" We grinned at each other, and before I knew it we had arrived at St Barts. He climbed out of the car easily, and let me out before closing the door afterwards. I half-laughed. He frowned slightly at me.

"What is it?" He demanded, striding up the stone steps, sideways looking at me.

"You were... uh... right about everything."

He smirked. "I knew it."

"Harry's short for Harriet."

He faltered.

"Harry's your sister?"

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I resumed, walking on.

"Sister!"

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

 He looked beside himself, at himself. "There's always something..."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: You may have realised (probably) that I largely based the deductions on Sherlock's actual speech; don't worry, I won't do it again, I just wanted to make it seem more realistic!