These are the Questions

Chapter 8

Slimy. It was the only way to describe the substance on John's plate.

The food-if that's what it is-is a sort of brownish color. Sherlock is sitting across the cafeteria, like usual, Greg is sitting with his rugby team, and John is wearing a new outfit that the Sholto's bought for him. He shifts and they ruffle uncomfortably against his skin, and he looks down at the blob.

'Starving kids in Africa, starving kids in Africa, starving kids in Africa.' He repeats to himself. But really, what difference does it make? To those children in Africa. If he eats it, it goes into his stomach, and out from there. If he doesn't, it just goes into the garbage. They don't get it either way. It does not benefit, nor harm those children in anyway if he were not to eat the specimen on his tray.

He will not eat the food, because he does not want to. And children everywhere will still be able to see the stars.

***

John knows a lot about cause and effect.

Nothing has a cause without an effect. Nothing has an effect without a cause.

The effect: His hair is shaggy.
The cause: he has not gotten a haircut in a while. The solution: he needs a haircut.

He mentions this briefly in front of Alison, before saying that he will just do it himself . Apparently, this will not do. His adoptive mother tells him that she will take him to get it done on Friday, at Murdoch Shoreditch, a barbershop a few blocks over. She is under the impression that he will mess up his hair. John knows he will not, he's cut it before, but says nothing of it.

That was this morning. Right now, he is in biology class, and his hair is hanging past his eyebrows, and there is simply no point in paying someone else to do something he can do himself.

***

Do you ever some times get this feeling, deep in your bones, that something's about to happen? And everything seems to pass by without you there, like life is going in slow motion waiting for this thing to happen. And you try to prepare yourself, because your not sure what it is. But when it comes, your still not ready.

You're just never ready.

***

What are you waiting for?

***

Mike Stamford is a jerk.

Like promised, after school that day, Greg introduces John to the rest of the rugby team.
There's Martin, Ben, Jack, Danny, and Rory. Then, there is Mike. Mike Stamford.

   He walks a cautious circle around John, almost like he's sizing him up. And then he speaks. "So this is that shrimp, huh?"

     He glares. "It's John."

      Mike is smiling, now. "Can I call you 'shrimp'?" He asks.

      John rolls his eyes and let's out a breath. "Can I call you 'jackass'?" He retorts.

      Mike raises one eyebrow, "Bitter little shrimp, aren't you?"

      A reply is on his tongue, but before he can say it, Greg is stepping in between them and facing Mike. "Hey, lay off," he says. "John's a good guy."

      Mike huffs and smirks and walks off, and John is pleased to see him go. The rest of the team is nice enough, even telling him he should try out to join the team.

      They're nice, John thinks. Probably will never be more than simply acquaintances, but nice.

***

     Alison and James are so happy.

    When John first arrives home that afternoon, there are a lot of adults, and suddenly he's being introduced to all of them.  "This is our son, John," they say.

    All of the replies are the same. "Yes, and you get to have your own child now!"

    And Alison and James are just so fucking happy.

***

      There's something scraping across the inside of his skull like sandpaper, rubbing him away and leaving a raw and bloody mess of fear and self-doubt and hurt simmering away.

    Sometimes, all he feels like is a pile of harsh words.

***

       When he gets upstairs, he drops his backpack off in his room and heads straight for a shower. It's in there that he can relax, his muscles loosening after a days stress. The water drips into his hair and down his spine and he concentrates on breathing.

The steam wraps around him, crawling up his back, sneaking in between his legs and traveling up his nose. He waits a second before the panic begins to set in, and another before his brain screams at him. "You can't breathe! You can't breathe!"

He takes a deep breath in and chokes it back out. The water continues falling; flowing in cascades down his body and trickling to the floor. Louder; louder. His face is wet, but he can't figure out if he is crying or not, all he knows is that he is suffocating on thin air.

He slowly lowers himself to the tiled floor. Why are you crying? Are those tears? He tries to focus on breathing. Why breathe at all? Inhale air. Inhale air. Inhale air. Oh, god, what happened to the air?

He pulls back the shower curtain and a cool gust of wind hits his face. And that is it. He breathes in like a man just surfacing water, and he stands, turns off the water, and he leaves.

***

        Sherlock is cutting his hair.

     Not his own hair, that would be ridiculous. No, he is cutting John's hair.

    John is sitting on the chair near his desk, no shirt on, and Sherlock is standing above him, running his fingers through the dirty blond hair, and snipping at it with the scissors.

      "What is on your mind?" He asks.

     And so he speaks.

    John rages on about humans, and labels, and bad, bad words. And he himself is not very aware of what he is saying. The words fly up from his heart, and he feels he's nearly choking on them until they spill off his tongue; bitter and raw and complete. And maybe that's for the best. The human race,  when talking about important matters—things we feel so much about, we always fall silent. We pause, and piece the words together in our minds. We're so careful. So perhaps it is for the best that he doesn't. That he doesn't guard or limit his words; that he lets Sherlock hear his thoughts as they are: bold and quiet and oh-so tired. Because if anyone will understand, it's him. John hopes to God that if anyone understands, it's Sherlock.

    And Sherlock listens. Very quietly; very attentively.

      And when John has nothing left to say (or perhaps when he runs out of breath with which to carry his words), all falls quiet. Only the sounds being his own raspy labored breaths and the wind whipping through his curtains.

    He is quiet, very quiet, almost too quiet. And then he speaks, very gently, very gracefully. "This world we live in, it's different here, than out there. It's our own special world." Sherlock says, combing his hands through his hair. "We're all mad here"