The Forth Wall

Victory High...Or Another Sort

"Oh my...oh my god! Greg, I've forgotten my soap!" John exclaimed, his voice rising to such a high octave that he must have rounded the corner and spotted his visitor. There was some shuffling, bare feet against the tile and the clanging of what could only be an elbow against the metal lockers.
"Ya, that sucks." Greg muttered.
"Could you please get it for me?" John wondered quickly. "It's just in the shower, but I really can't go back there, my heel is hurting and I think I need to sit down."
"Your heel?" Greg confirmed. John gave an unconvincing utter of pain, and for a moment Sherlock was sure they were done for.
"And you...hey! Yes, you can take James with you. James come here, you and Greg...ah, and Stanley! Everyone, everyone come here! No, I need my soap. And I need you three strapping lads to go get it before you get settled into your clothes." John insisted.
"Sounds awfully excessive for a bar of soap." Stanley's voice came in protest. Sherlock still kept his eyes closed, but from the lack of exclamation he could only imagine that John was doing a good job of keeping he boys preoccupied and away from their row of lockers.
"Well you need some backup, what if Greg slips while in there, and is unable to complete the task. Then you'll need James to help him back up while Stanley goes to get it." john pointed out.
"I think you're crazy." James decided.
"And I think you're not listening to your captain. Come on then, on with it!" John exclaimed. From the serious of groans Sherlock could imagine they were compliant, and before long he heard the quick footfalls of a rather anxious boy upon the tile. Hearing as though there was no surprise, Sherlock at last allowed his eyes to open.
"Up, up, oh my God!" John insisted, yanking Sherlock by his arm before he could protest. For a moment Sherlock was astounded, unable to manage a word now that he was basically being assaulted by a half-naked John Watson, his muscular torso completely exposed with a towel tied a bit sloppily around his waist. Unfortunately Sherlock took a moment to stare, this being completely on his own bidding, though his eyes were a bit too fixated to look away. Well what could he do, really? He was guilty of all charges in that moment, admiring the man and not minding the situation at hand. Before long John ushered Sherlock's wide eyes back up to meet his own, and for a moment both boys turned red.
"This wasn't my idea." Sherlock whispered, though he could imagine that went without saying.
"Can you leave?" John wondered. Sherlock tried to turn his body; he tried to push his feet in the direction of the door, though with no success. His feet were planted upon the ground, unresponsive.
"No." Sherlock admitted. John began to panic, keeping one hand clenched upon Sherlock's arm and another waving anxiously through his wet hair, now much darker with the accumulation of water.
"Well then...aha!" John threw his locker open, tossing what he could out and beginning to pull Sherlock forward.
"I won't fit!" Sherlock protested as silently as he could.
"You'll fit. I'll make sure of it." John insisted, now securing his grip upon Sherlock's back and pushing him rather aggressively into the metal box. Sherlock's head went in first, pressed up tight against two wire coat hangers, and he found thankfully that his legs would respond, at least enough to pull his feet up into the safety of the locker. When he squatted he could fit, though before he could rearrange himself into a more comfortable position the locker was already slammed shut, forcing him to huddle like a hunch back and put all of his weight onto his already struggling quads.
"John, John?" Sherlock whispered through the darkness, pressing his lips up to the vents which separated the two.
"What?" John hissed.
"Are you still you?" Sherlock asked. John thought for a moment, from what Sherlock could see there was a look of determination on his face. Thankfully, John nodded.
"Ya, I'm me." he agreed. "Now keep your eyes closed, don't be a little pervert."
"As if I'd want to see you naked." Sherlock grimaced. "They'd have to surgically remove my eyes, as they'd be burned into my very skull."
"Shut...Ah! There we go, see that's exactly how it was supposed to go down!" John turned happily, and from what Sherlock could see (each boy was wearing a towel, making it appropriate for Sherlock to keep his eyes open) the small soap retrieval squad had arrived back.
"Ya well, no need to thank us." Greg muttered, looking a bit annoyed as he turned towards his own locker and threw the door open. Sherlock took this as his cue to close his eyes, and from that moment on he kept his eyelids shut, staring only into the darkness. There was not much conversation from that moment on, and other than the sounds of clothes being pulled on, hair being dried, and belts being buckled the locker room had fallen into a silence. The radio was still going somewhere in the background, though all of the showers had fallen quiet and a strange peace had come over. Sherlock's breathing was still heavy, loud enough that he could hear his breath being echoed through the metal. He couldn't rearrange himself to cover his mouth, seeing as though any readjusting would cause this whole locker to creak, all of his limbs hitting and echoing and giving his position away. While this wouldn't be as incriminating a place to be caught in (considering it was obvious that John had a role in it) it would still be quite awkward, and for that reason alone Sherlock decided not to make himself known. It was worth a little bit of muscle strain to ensure he wouldn't sport anymore bruises for the remainder of his high school career.
"John are you coming for milkshakes?" Greg's voice asked from somewhere down the way.
"No, no I'm not really hungry." John muttered.
"More of a drink, really." came another, undistinguishable voice.
"Well I'm not thirsty either. I'm just tired, ready to go home." John sighed.
"Not sure you're making any progress with that." chuckled another voice.
"Oh, well ya. Ya I'm just chilling really." John sighed.
"Resting that heel?" Greg presumed doubtfully.
"Ya, ya. In fact it feels better when I'm not wearing pants. Allow for blood flow." John said, a rather pathetic argument really. It was only then that Sherlock realized his feet were stepping along a pair of jeans, perhaps John's only clothes for his departure from the stadium. Well, those were a lost cause. No retrieving them yet.
"You're awfully strange tonight." came Stanley's voice.
"Victory goes to the head." John shrugged.
"And the victory is all yours tonight. Come on John, why not a milkshake? I heard the cheerleaders are going to be there, that's your girl isn't it?" Greg insisted.
"Who, Mary? No, we're just friends." John assured. Sherlock tried to stifle his laugh, biting down hard on his tongue to make sure not even a smile graced his lips. Oh how little Greg knew, imagining that John would be going out with Mary when his most recent kiss was with the one and only Sherlock Holmes. If this situation wasn't so perilous Sherlock might have found it quite entertaining, ironic really.
"She's properly convinced you're dating." James insisted. "I'm pretty sure I heard her talking about it at lunch."
"We're not dating! God, all she does is drive me home after practice!" John debated.
"And what then, Johnny Boy? Plenty of space in that pretty pink car once the top is up." Greg teased.
"Then I get out of the car, say goodbye, and go home!" John debated. "I don't like Mary Morstan, you guys know that. She's a bother."
"Then who do you like? You've got to have your eye on someone." Stanley protested. Sherlock bit down even harder on his tongue, this time tasting blood.
"No one. I'm flying solo for now." John assured. Sherlock had to imagine the boy's reactions had John even teased about the truth. Certainly no one would believe him; they might even laugh along as if it was a joke!
"I'd believe you if you'd just put on your pants." Greg insisted, followed by a squeak of protest as if John had just been hit.
"I told you, blood flow!" John debated.
"Ya, whatever." Greg muttered. "You're on something right now, whether it's a victory high or another sort, well I want whatever it is you're having."
"It's called athletic responsibly." John defended, though his comment was not offered any response. Thankfully the conversations grew evermore scarce, until at last they were morphing into goodbyes. John was offering his friends some final denials, insisting that he wanted nothing to do with the milkshakes, and as he was making his excuses Sherlock began to remember that he had his own responsibilities. Up until now he had forgotten about Victor and Mycroft, alone on the bleachers and waiting for his reappearance? Would they have checked the bathroom by now, declaring him missing? Oh they must be in an absolute terror, figuring that Sherlock had been kidnapped or otherwise injured! That or the two boys were totally preoccupied, already having wandered out of the stadium together without a second thought to their third wheel. As Sherlock considered the scenario his heart lightened, as he imagined that the reality fell within the second possibility. If Mycroft was worried Sherlock's phone would have gone off, and as of now it was sitting undisturbed inside of his pocket. At long last the locker room fell silent, and when Sherlock opened his eyes he found that John had vanished. Well he couldn't have gone far, considering his only pants were getting squished underneath Sherlock's feet, and at long last he reappeared in front of the locker.
"They're gone." John announced thankfully, letting out a large sigh of relief as he opened the locker door and allowed Sherlock to spill out onto the bench. The poor boy ached, his joints all stiff and his muscles screaming. Thankfully the bench was unoccupied and the locker room clean, free for him to stretch out his long legs and allow them to relax. John scrambled to retrieve his jeans from the bottom of his locker, cursing under his breath as he beat away the dust that had accumulated from under the soles of Sherlock's feet.
"You almost got us both killed!" John growled. Sherlock nodded, not allowed to do anything more. Supposedly this reunion had been highlighted in their controller's fantasies, for even after the danger had passed he was not given control back over his own body. Certainly this was not the end, only the beginning of what was imagined for their night ahead.
"Thankfully you do have a brain somewhere in there after all." Sherlock grumbled. John responded with a frown, though still his bare legs were sticking out from the long end of his shirt. He was mostly covered, though not well enough for Sherlock to feel wholly comfortable.
"Put your pants on." Sherlock demanded, turning his head away while his arms folded without his consent.
"Oh, right." John agreed, struggling into his jeans with a couple of hops around, wiggling in and fastening the button at last. Finally they were both decent, which would certainly make this conversation go a bit easier.
"I don't understand why you're free right now." Sherlock protested. "I can't move from this bench, and yet I'm sure you could just walk out of here right now."
"Well, maybe they forgot about me tonight? Or maybe the thrill of the game was enough to fight back." John suggested.
"Or you're not supposed to be here right now. Perhaps this is my soliloquy." Sherlock suggested.
"You're supposed to be sitting and staring at my locker then, alone?" John presumed.
"Maybe." Sherlock agreed. John gave a little smile, shaking his head doubtfully.
"Maybe you're just making all of this up, as an excuse to get in the locker room." John suggested.
"I'm not suicidal, John." Sherlock pointed out. "I would be far gone if I wasn't forced down here."
"I'm surprised to see you were here in the first place. What business does the king lesbian have at a football game?" John wondered with a rather sassy pop of his hip, as if he figured he was cornering Sherlock with such detailed accusations.
"Thespian, John." Sherlock grumbled under his breath.
"Same thing." John corrected with a sigh.
"My parents force me to go to these things, both Mycroft and I. They say it's good to have high school spirit. In all reality I think they just use it as an excuse to spend time with us." Sherlock grumbled.
"Must be nice." John muttered as he took to throwing things into his backpack, shoes and towels and other miscellaneous things which were scattered within his locker. Sherlock didn't want to dig too deeply into John's personal life and so he let that little comment go, though it made him search his memories all the way back, trying to remember if he had ever seen one of John's family members at all. Perhaps he was a little bit lonelier than Sherlock imagined?
"They all share my opinion of you, actually. It's rather funny hearing them cheer when you get sacked." Sherlock added quickly.
"Even your parents hate me?" John clarified with a little chuckle, zipping up his backpack and slinging one strap across his shoulder.
"Of course they do. They were the ones who had to pick me up from school, witnessing you chasing me with worms and dirt and whatever else you could find on the front lawn." Sherlock pointed out. John thought for a moment, a smile gracing his lips as he remembered back to better times.
"I guess I really gave you a hard time back then." He chuckled.
"According to urban legend, that means you had a crush on me." Sherlock pointed out with a little grin. John gave a doubtful little grimace, though his cheeks grew slightly red.
"Hmm, that might be a stretch. I think I was more satisfied with the way you screamed than the rest of the children, as your voice could get highest." John corrected after a moment's thought.
"Ya well, it didn't let up after common sense settled in." Sherlock pointed out, his voice dropping a bit shamefully as he remembered their middle school years. Gone were the innocent pranks, the thoughtless terror that made kids laugh instead of cry. Middle school was the year of psychical abuse, of fear and unrest. Sherlock used to skip school on behalf of John Watson, fearing what tortuous concoctions he could think of for use in a deserted hallway. For a moment the two boys sat quietly, gazing reluctantly down at the tile floor.
"Our pasts betray us." John sighed. Sherlock was silent, for he couldn't really agree. He figured his past matched perfectly well with his present, though he had never been one for youthful mistakes. John had much more to answer for in that realm, and much more to make up for in the coming weeks. Thankfully their silence was interrupted when Sherlock's phone began to buzz, and it was about time too! How long had it been, nearly a half an hour? Surely Mycroft had walked all the way home before realizing he was missing his brother. Sherlock found that he was allowed to take his phone from his pocket; perhaps then his arms were not of much use to their spell caster. John remained silent; thankfully realizing that it was better that no one realized they were together. If Mycroft recognized any motion from behind Sherlock's voice, even the shuffling of feet, he would get very suspicious. Certainly the only person who Sherlock would hang out with was Victor, and with that fool being accounted for there was no reasonable explanation for the presence of a second person. Mycroft would dig deeper, and God forbid he find out the truth!
"Yes, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked upon answering, settling his finger onto his lips to remind John to be quiet. The boy nodded seriously, keeping his mouth shut with eyes wide. Sherlock found it funny that the only boy John Watson really feared was Mycroft, all because Mycroft was old enough to retaliate when their playground feuds became rough. He always acted as Sherlock's vengeful knight in shining armor, and when John went down it was always after a quick shove from Mycroft Holmes. Certainly the boy wasn't going to risk it, even after all of these years.
"Don't be all innocent with me, where the h*ll are you?" Mycroft demanded.
"Where are you? I came out of the bathroom and you were gone!" Sherlock snapped back.
"You must've turned invisible during that little trip, because we checked the bathroom." Mycroft pointed out, to which Sherlock's words faltered slightly. Oh dear.
"Well, I went to the snack stand after. Figured I'd get a soda for the walk home." Sherlock defended quickly, his excuses growing very thin and very unbelievable as the time went on.
"Sherlock, don't lie to me." Mycroft demanded after a moment of exasperation. Sherlock sighed heavily, giving John an almost pleading look as if to try to call him to his aid. Certainly John wouldn't be able to think of a better excuse than what Sherlock had offered, though perhaps it would be useful to admit to some of the truth...
"Fine, yes. I'm still at the stadium." Sherlock grumbled after a moment's silence.
"How come?" Mycroft wondered without missing a beat. Sherlock hesitated, though closed his eyes in worry. He had to think of something, and immediately!
"I'm with Jeanette." He said quickly. "She got into some trouble with the football team, and she's too scared to walk home."
"I don't believe you." Mycroft snarled again.
"Well then hang up! God, Mycroft, if you're not going to believe me then don't listen!" Sherlock insisted.
"Fine, I will." The beeping of the line emphasized his seriousness, and only a moment later Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket, exasperated with his brother but thankful that was over. Okay, he would admit that his excuses weren't up to par. But what business did Mycroft have, poking around in his personal life? If Sherlock was well enough to answer the phone then certainly he couldn't be in too much trouble, despite what Mycroft's motherly brain might assume.
"Your brother really is just one of a kind." John muttered after Sherlock got situated, at last finding he was allowed to stand on his own accord. He gave a frown of agreement, though for a moment he considered what would happen if he had told Mycroft the outright truth. Would he believe it?
"Sometimes I think I have two mothers, one which is much more overbearing than the other." Sherlock agreed. John nodded, taking a moment to adjust his backpack upon his shoulders as if he was deliberately avoiding responding to that.