The Martyrs of Mischief

Chapter 1

"Within the novel of To Kill a Mockingbird, the theme of-"

Tap.

"This is especially present when-"

Tap, tap.

"For example, when Scout-"

Tap, tap, tap.

Every time the sound of plastic hitting wood collided with John's eardrums, his eyelid twitched.

Throughout the duration of the lesson, all John had been able to hear was the teacher's dulcet drone, punctuated harshly by the pen tapping behind him. If he hadn't been so focused on the lesson he wouldn't have minded as much, but as the exam was less than a week away, he was hastily attempting to make as many notes as possible. Which was already difficult owing to the sprained wrist he'd earned himself while playing rugby earlier that week. His hand started shaking every time he grasped the pen.

However, it seemed that John was never going to be able to jot down the notes he'd made, let alone read them at a later date, as the boy sitting behind him seemed intent upon making sure that John never received his English GCSE qualification. He tapped again, and John squared his jaw, growing increasingly more annoyed.

Tap.

John flipped.

"Will you stop tapping your bloody pen before I ram it up your arse?!" He roared, turning around on his chair to face the guilty pen tapper.

The culprit blinked, and John felt the tips of his ears grow pink as he furiously stared back, all too aware of the strong blush running through his cheeks. He prayed that it would be mistaken for anger, rather than sudden humiliation, and he swallowed; all too aware of the boy's infamous reputation.

Sherlock Holmes was a well known entity in the school for his witty comebacks, wicked insults, and whimsical good looks. He was tall, with ridiculously long legs that stretched for miles, with mop of thick curly hair that tumbled into whichever direction suited it best. Dazzlingly pale skin made dark hair darker, and John felt a gulp cling on for dear life as Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together.

He knew that look, and he didn't like it one bit.

It was the same look that would reduce cocky little year sevens to tears, and make softer year 13s throw a punch. If John had to describe it in one word he'd have put it as calculating, and devilishly troublesome. The smirk didn't help, either.

Currently, Sherlock's black blazer was hanging uninterestedly over the back of his chair, and his lopsided tie fell loosely around his unbuttoned collar. John blinked, but then mentally shook himself, trying to convince himself that actually, Sherlock Holmes was a bit of a nob.

An enormous nob.

With nice hair.

Not losing eye contact, Sherlock fingered the pen carelessly before bringing it to his chest and slipping it into his top shirt pocket. As his eyebrows rose, indicating that he was finished. Satisfied, John nodded before turning back around and averting his attention towards the teacher.

It was peaceful for a few moments, until...

His seat was rising. He could feel the Earth leaving him as the two back legs of the chair left the ground, before they were dropped clumsily down again. The jolt of the legs hitting the floor made John see red as Sherlock wriggled his feet under John's chair. John shut his eyes as he began tilting again, and for the second time that lesson, he found himself glowering at the arrogant teenager.

"I swear to God, if you don't stop I will-"

"-ram the chair up my arse?" Sherlock finished with a smirk, and John glared, taking in a sharp gulp of air as he was dropped again.