AN: Hey, everyone. Welcome to my new story, Intuit. I hope you all like it, because I'm working extremely hard to make it suitable. Thanks.
-Leah
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John's POV
History class was always boring. I never truly cared for the papers we had to write or the monotonous robot that was Mr. Moriarty, James's father. He had the same serpent's eyes, the same pale skin, the same dark hair. I shivered every time my eyes landed on him. That morning, however, I didn't look at Mr. Moriarty, nor did I pay attention or take any notes. Instead, I simply stared at Mr. Moriarty's feet. Feet are what I see for the most part, that and chests and legs. I rarely see shoulders or heads unless I crane my neck. And I didn't really fancy craning my neck that morning, especially when my backpack smelled of rubbish and James was sitting at the back of the room. I could feel his eyes on me. Before I could stop it, a tear had slipped down my cheek. I tried to cover it up by pretending I'd dropped my pencil, but I was completely unsuccessful.
"All right?" someone asked calmly. I jumped at the smooth, velvety baritone. I'd never heard it before, yet it couldn't have been a new student; They usually announce new students on the intercom. I halted, my limbs freezing. I finally gathered the courage to turn. Beside me sat a boy with glossy, ebony curls that fell over his face. He stared at me quizzically, waiting for an answer. But all I noticed were his eyes. Blue and green and everything, seeming to pierce into my skin like daggers. They were so warm, like hot chocolate, or freshly washed blankets, or flannel, or fleece, or a nice, soft pillow. I gulped and my pencil instantly slipped from my loosening fingers, falling onto the floor. The boy seemed worried, and he leaned over to pick it up. He handed it to me, contorting his face into a frown. "Excuse me," he cleared his throat. I shook my head and tore my eyes off him.
"No."
"No, what?"
"I'm not all right."
The boy opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Moriarty's stern glare stopped both of us. He turned in his seat and stared at Mr. Moriarty in full attention. I did the same.
But all I could see were his eyes.
Sherlock's POV
He had stared for so long. I gulped as Mr. Moriarty, the overweight, monotonous history teacher, dove into a speech about World War II. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see the hint of a tear slip down the boy's cheek. Was it just a trick of the eye, or was this boy....CRYING? I was unfamiliar to tears. After all, Mycroft never cried, and neither did I. That was us, the Holmes family. No expression. My mother, however, was more expressive than the lot of us. She was a lovely mother, but she cried at even the slightest thing. I hated that about her. I still do.
The boy cleared his throat awkwardly and, startled, I turned immediately. His thrilling caramel eyes were filled with tears, and they streaked down his cheeks. He cried silently, ignoring my puzzled look, ignoring everyone and everything. Mr. Moriarty sent him a dirty look, but otherwise, didn't check on him or anything. I leaned over and whispered to the boy, "Stop crying. Please." But that simply made his tears fall faster. He buried his face into the sleeves of his oversized, blue jumper, his body heaving. I turned around, and saw that Jack was snickering. I rolled my eyes and turned back to the boy.
"I h-hate him," whispered the boy, choking on his own sobs.
I realised then that I hated James as well.
