A Study At Bullimore

17

After English, John had a study period. Instead of going to the library, he decided to settle into the desk in his dorm room. He was too unsettled to actually do any work, and so spent the 2 hour period flicking between swinging on his chair and opening his text book to different pages. What made it worse was that he knew he had to study. He had to get this chapter of Chemistry done if he wanted to be anywhere near passing but he couldn't do it. None of the words made sense, and it made him feel more knotted to try and force himself to work. John was unsure of why there was this sudden knot in his brain that refused to budge and, although he knew it was due to Sherlock, he consciously put it down to a lack of sleep (which was also being caused by Sherlock.) Both Mike and Greg were in lesson so there was no hope in trying to work with them, so John decided to take a break after writing the word 'polarity', underlining it three times, and make himself some tea.

Downstairs was empty apart from a lad who was lounging on a chair by the fireplace, somewhere between wake and sleep. Now and again, he would shift, his folded arms twitching as he sighed in his dreams. John laughed quietly to himself, if only he could sleep right now, perhaps it would be a better use of his time. He wandered over to the kettle, filling it up at the sink and boiling it. Even if he tried, John wouldn't be able to sleep. He was too riled up, his brain anxiously flickering and, as he turned around to grab a cup from the cupboard, he caught the figure of Anderson out of his peripheries.

"Hello John." He said. John sighed internally; he wasn't in the mood to deal with the irritating shit. "Alright." John smiled with his lips pressed together, he could barely force it out.
"How are you?" God, he hated pleasantries, especially with Anderson. Sherlock's silence was welcomed, it showed John their relationship was built on something with substance, more than just a 'hello' 'how are you' like so many friendships were.
"Alright." John said, pausing, before pouring the tea into the cup. "Is there anything you need?" He asked, trying to indicate that he wanted Anderson to leave. John watch him lean against the countertop, crossing his legs and folding his arms.
"I was just wondering if you'd seen Sherlock?" Despite the innocent tone, John knew Anderson's intent was to unnerve him. He was a snake.
"No, I haven't." John threw a sarcastic smile to Anderson, who returned it. "Have you?"
"No. That's why I was asking" He replied as John opened the fridge to get the milk.
"I see." Silence. "Well, Phillip, if you care so much, perhaps you could find out yourself." Anderson sighed, licking his lips and dropping his hands as John removed the tea bag.

"Wouldn't you like to know where he is?" He enquired.
"It doesn't particularly effect me." Lie. He could tell Anderson could hear it too.
"Strange, I thought you and Sherlock were close?"
"What makes you say that?"
"You were joined at the hip not that long ago." John shook his head.
"Yeah, Sherlock's my friend." Anderson scoffed at him.
"How soundproof do you think these walls are?" John knew Anderson was making shit up, he and Sherlock had done nothing that Anderson could hear a floor down. But the John's face worked against him, Anderson technically wasn't wrong, he and Sherlock had kissed, well almost more than kissed, and John's stupid sudden reaction gave Anderson the upper hand. John laughed emptily.
"I don't know what you're hearing, Anderson, as I said. Sherlock and I are friends. Nothing more than friends." He gestured with the teaspoon in his hand. "Also, I don't see how or why this would matter to you." Anderson shrugged.

"You wouldn't want the wrong person finding out." Anderson said and John swallowed.
"Finding out what?" His voice was tight in his throat, and he held Anderson's gaze, who was the first to look away.

"John." His tone suddenly switched to something far more deceptive. A lump formed in John's throat, but he passed it off by pouring milk in his tea. "Have you seen Sherlock's arms?" John stopped pouring briefly, his back suddenly hot with a prickling sense of anxiety and dread. He cleared his throat, unsure what to say.

"No." Pause. Of course he had. Once, when he was getting changed, John caught a glimpse at the inner of Sherlock's left arm. It was white, but sprinkled with whiter, straight, horizontal lines that ran the width of his forearm. To anyone else, the scars would have gone un-noticed as they were almost invisible, but John knew what they looked like. John didn't bring it up, and he ignored it again when he noticed several pinker marks a few days later. "Why? Does it matter?" The lad opposite him shrugged, turning to lean his back against the counter-top.

"He's strange. Sherlock Holmes. Self-destructive in more ways than one." John swallowed, the words hanging in the air.
"Why- What do you get out of this?" John asked, half laughing as he mixed the tea. Anderson shrugged and John again questioned the incentive of the man. It was almost as though he was so desperate to have a connection with someone that he'd take an argument over nothing.

"Just. Don't treat me like shit." John could almost have laughed in his face.
"Is that it?"
"Yes. Don't treat me like shit and get Sherlock to like me."
"I can't do that. I can't make someone like you."

"The walls can't talk." Anderson said, looking to John. "But I can." John was sure the line was rehearsed in his head. It sounded too rehearsed and delivered too straightly. "Who would the school believe? A long-term student, exemplar student just trying to study. Or a couple of bum boys who so obviously like each other. One too poor to attend the university off his own back and the other a mentally ill arsehole?"

"I." No words formed in John's mouth. "Just fuck off Phillip."
"Sorry?"
"Just fuck off. Do you not think Sherlock has enough going on?" The words soured his mouth. "What is the point in this? You threaten Sherlock and I, which, by the way, we are just friends. If you care at all, I am not gay. You use Sherlock's...stuff as a way to try and cause problems for us? Is it desperation or simple stupidity?" John was so angry his hands were shaking. Phillip shook his head, laughing in disbelief. "Well?" And Anderson didn't answer so John took that as an indicator for his exit, his vision still hot.

"You don't win in these situations, Phillip. This isn't a game, this is someone' life. Just fucking grow up. It isn't my fault Sherlock doesn't want to be your friend." And when he got upstairs, John threw himself against the mattress of his bed, his head aching. Now Anderson was convinced that he knew something and somehow John knew that he'd use it if he could, to try and get someone on side. And, as he dozed off, all John could think of were the slithered scars on Sherlock's arm and Anderson's words.

'He's strange. Sherlock Holmes. Self-destructive in more ways than one'