Habits of the Heart

I

It was hands, then mouths, then limbs. Warm bodies, pressed together, until he felt only one. They stumbled in a drunken blur, falling onto the grungy bed in one of the rooms, clothes flying off. Sweat and alcohol filled the air and the music was a dull drone to their drunk ears, hidden behind a thin wall.

"Mmf!" The blonde boy remarked, muffled by a crash of her lips. Sarah, or Maggie, maybe even Hannah? She climbed on top of him, eyes dulled from the amount of alcohol and hair sticking to her face.

She straddled him, bending down to nip at his already plump lips. His hands slid down her body, asking, begging for more.

It was a miracle that no one barged in on them. They stumbled out and John got a few pats on his back before having another beer shoved into his hand. He downed it, not thinking about the brain cells he was drowning.

---

"John Watson, will you please try and at least look like you are paying attention?" The American history sighed out, pushing the thickly rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

John scoffed, sitting up in his chair and flashing a forced smile at his teacher, as well as his rugby coach. He knew the teacher meant well, but he just couldn't bother to care.

He droned on and the blonde male's attention waned, slowly disappearing until the shrill cry of the bell jarred him into consciousness.

"John, please stay after class." The balding man spoke, picking up a stack of papers on his desk.

"But sir! I have to get ready for practice!" John complained, slouching against the door frame.

"Come in and shut the door." He stated calmly, placing the papers down and removing his glasses to rub his face. John stood up, noticing his change in posture. Mr. Reems had been his coach for quite some time and John was able to tell when something was wrong. And something was very wrong. He set his bag down and sat at the desk, waiting for him to speak.

"John, you can't play anymore. Not until your grades are brought up."

John gaped at him, trying to think of something to say, anything.

"But.. You know I need this coach. How else am I going to get into college?" He said quickly, giving him a pleading look.

"Its the school rule. Bad grades equal no sports. But I do have a suggestion..." He began slowly, sitting in his wheeled chair and facing the smaller boy.

"What?! Anything!"

"Tutoring. I know of another boy who is looking to make some money. He is exceptionally bright and will be able to tutor you."

"A tutor..? Is there any other way?"

"Its this or no scholarship."

---

John knew he was going to hate the boy the second he saw him. Bony pale limbs that stuck out of a thin body, scraggly curly hair that seemed darker than ebony, if that were even possible, and a resting smirk that said 'I'm smarter than you and we all know it.'

He sat in a wooden chair, pulled up to a stranded table. He was hunched down, scanning a book quickly.

"Hello, I'm here for tutoring." John said smoothly, plastering on a smile and sitting across from the other boy.

"Obviously." He muttered softly, turning a page.

"E-excuse me?" That response had caught John off guard.

"Hmm? Oh nothing." He mused, closing up the book and looking up at John with piercing emerald eyes. "Ready to begin?"

"Oh um... Yeah."

"Excellent, we will start with Algebra." His slender fingers found their way around a heavy yellow textbook, setting it down carefully on the table. He flipped through the pages and stopped on the lesson John was on.

"How did you know what lesson I was on?" He asked, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

"Oh.. I just asked." He stilled for a moment before replying quickly and looking up at him.

John eyed him curiously. "I never got a name.." He said slowly, reaching down for his backpack.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Now let's begin."

---

A/N- So I started this piece of trash. Just experimenting with new writing styles. Anyways, comment if you want me to continue!
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