(A/N) This could be my competition entry, so if for some reason you don't want to/can't read it, just ignore this chapter.
W A R N I N G S- Swearing and one passionate kiss
John Hamish Watson was doing his best not to fall asleep in the middle of his Biology lecture. He was doing pretty well, but had it not been for the boy beside him, all hope would've been lost.
The boy was tall, pale and scrawny. John wouldn't have payed him any attention had it not been for the fact he was rocking his chair. His squeaky chair. Incessantly. The ear-piercing shriek it emitted was the only thing keeping John awake, the only thing battling the tedious lesson, the only thing keeping John from being engulfed in the drowsiness the Professor's voice induced. But it was also pushing him closer and closer to shouting at the boy, telling him to shut up.
John glared at the other student, trying to send a telepathic message relaying his request for silence. It took a while, ten, fifteen minutes, maybe, but eventually the boy turned to look at John, a smirk on his face. He shrugged, and stopped moving.
He was no longer making nose. He was no longer distracting John. So why was John still glaring? He found himself unable to take his gaze from the boy, but he also couldn't bring himself to simply look at him, so he fixed the boy with a crippling stare, not loosing eye contact.
The boy's smirk faltered a little, and he was the first to look away. John sighed and put his head down on his desk. He was so fucking tired...
"Here." A deep, baritone voice whispered somewhere near his ear, as a skeletal, chalky hand slid a cardboard cup infront of him. When John sat up to look around to see who it was who had given it to him, the only hint he got was a conceited wink from the other student. John scowled at the marble-like boy before cautiously opening the lid of the cup, immediately recognising the farmiliar scent of caffeine and milk. Deciding the coffee on its own would have no hope of keeping him awake, John bent over to rifle through his bag, shoving copies and shifting papers until he found what he was looking for. He could feel the eerily shaded eyes trained on him as he put the can of Monster on the desk infront of him. Surprisingly, the professor had not yet noticed him.
"I. Am. Going. To. Die." John growled lowly, pouring the entire contents of the aluminium container into the flimsy coffee cup, then downing the lot. It burned like fire in his throat, causing him to make a pained expression, which was quickly turned to one of contempt as the Renaissance-Carving-Incarnate gave a quiet chuckle.
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Later on that day, John was getting ready to go to the pool. He had two hours to kill, one of which he decided to fill training for the collage's swimming league, which commenced in a few months time. He left his towel on the bench, along with his jumper and other articles of clothing, as he had forgotten to bring the coin that was required to operate the gym lockers.
He stood at the edge of the pool, his toes curling around the rim, his knees bent and arms gripping the diving board. He took a breath and looked up at the timing clock. He waited until the red hand hit twelve, then pushed off with his legs, his arms flinging themselves forward so that is fingertips broke the surface of the water, allowing his head to follow through, along with the rest of him. He made sure to dive as shallowly as possible, so that he could get his arms in motion as soon as he could.
One minute fifteen seconds. He groaned and rested his head against the wall of the pool, treading water as so to stay afloat. One minute fifteen. That was five seconds slower than his average time. Five seconds didn't sound like a lot, but John knew from experience that when you were in a race, every second you were swimming when the other competitors were not seemed to last for an eternity.
