The Diary Of John Hamish Watson (Aged 10 Years)

4th September

4th September 1982

Dad had to go to work extra early this morning but I’m not sure why. Even so, Mum took us to school. She can’t drive so we took a cab. I tried to tell her that I was perfectly able to take us myself but she insisted on coming. Harry was very excited and thought it was a big adventure. Mum and I let her have her fun- she is only seven after all.

Sherlock was waiting for me.

“Getting a cab to school now are we?” he asked, snootily but I knew he didn’t mean it.

“I really am sorry about yesterday,” I said, seeing that the air had now cleared. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

“It’s alright,” he smiled. “I can’t blame you.”

“We’ve got science today haven’t we? I should think you’re in a good mood about that.”

“Not really, lessons here are babyish and dull. I’d rather spent a couple of hours with my own experiments.”

“I hardly think your experiments would be safe for school,” I pointed out. Sherlock shrugged. “Speaking of which- did you get anywhere on those stink bombs?”

“Yes, but instead of going off when Mycroft opened his drawer as planned- Mummy decided to put away some of his clean washing instead. She wasn’t please at getting a faceful of rotting eggs- the smell of them anyway- and Father’s banned me from performing any sort of experiment in the house. I’ve been demoted to the bottom of the allotment.”

I had to bite my lip so I didn’t laugh at his very cheesed off face.

James was moved to sit with Anderson and the black girl (Sally) on the other side of the room. They seemed to have a little club of distinct Sherlock haters going on.

“I’ve seen how he’s been acting and I didn’t think it fair on you boys,” whispered Mrs Hudson with a sympathetic smile as she handed out the English books.

At break I went to the tuck shop without Sherlock, who was in the middle of an obviously very interesting novel and wanted to just sit on our usual bench and read.

I bought a cereal bar and a carton of orange juice and was wandering back when I saw a large group of people around the bench.

“FIGHT! FIGHT!”

“Come on Jimmy!! Wallop ‘im!!”

“Go on Andy!!”

I caught snippets of shouting and immediately knew what was going on. I dropped my snack and sped over, pushing through the crowd. James, Anderson and another boy who I recognised from class but didn’t know his name had tackled Sherlock to the concrete and were attacking him with flurries of punches and kicks and verbal abuse.

“Get off him!” I screamed, grabbing at air until I got a handful of Anderson’s jacket and yanked him off. “Leave him alone!”

I felt my face grow scarlet in rage and saw my knuckles go white in their fists. Anderson and the other boy stood back, a little scared, whilst James laughed.

“Come on then Jonny,” he grinned. “Defend your little boyfriend.” He held his arms out wide and his eyes gleamed in challenge. I would have punched his smug little face without a second thought had Mrs Smith not intervened.

“What’s all this then?” she inquired sharply. “Not fighting I hope.”

“Well-“ I went to tell her about how the three boys had beaten up Sherlock but guess who butted in?

“John was going to hit me Miss,” James said, tears forming. Crocodile tears, any idiot could see it. But not Mrs Smith apparently.

“I’m sorry?!” she turned to me. “John Watson? The new boy?”

I nodded. “But I didn’t-“

“No excuses young man! This sort of behaviour is completely unacceptable. Goodness knows what you would have done to poor Jim had I not stepped in. You will go to the Headmaster at once!”

I trudged into Mr Carter’s office, he sat primly at his desk and gestured at the empty chair in front of him. I sat down.

“Now,” he began, removing his reading glasses. “Master John Watson. I hear that you were involved in a fight with the other new boy, James Moriarty. I must make myself clear that we do not condone violence of any kind at this school.”

I sat, staring at the floor, not even bothering to speak out because I knew I was wasting my breath.

“We will be informing your parents of this and there will be a lovely little detention waiting for you at lunchtime. Even though you didn’t actually hit Master Moriarty, you did threaten to and this is just as serious, you must understand. I do think that this is all, stand up would you and come here.”

I knew what was coming. We’d never had it at my old school but I’d heard enough horror stories. I stood up and went over to the old man who reached into a cupboard and brought out a thin, smooth stick.

“Hold out your hand boy,” he ordered. I did so and before I knew what was happening he thwacked the cane down onto the soft skin of my palm. Just the once but it hurt like nothing I’d ever experienced. Worse than when I’d fallen off my bicycle into a rose bush. Worse than the jabs we’d had in Year 1. I felt tears but blinked them down, men didn’t cry. So I just stared at the red swollen mark that lay across my hand.

“You may go,” Mr Carter said and sat down as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just maimed one of his pupils. I left his office to see Sherlock waiting for me outside. I winced when I saw the cuts and grazes covering his face.

“Looks like we’ve both got our battle wounds,” I joked.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, concern strong in his voice. Reluctantly I showed him my hand.

“Crikey John!” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t that hurt.”

I nodded because there was no use in fibbing, “A lot.”

“I’m sorry, I should have defended you.”

“Sherlock- you were lying near unconscious on the floor. How could you have defended me?”

“But you only did it to defend me,” he said quietly.

“So?” I shrugged. “It’s what friends do.”

Sherlock grinned and so did I.

Mum picked us up as well. I hid my hand in the sleeve of my coat because I knew she’d go barmy about it.

Dad didn’t get home until bedtime. He strode in and dumped his briefcase on the kitchen table, loosened his tie and ran a hand through his hair.

“Get us a cup of tea Florence,” he ordered Mum and she hurried to turn on the kettle. “Alright kids?” he nodded to us. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? Do your teeth and I’ll come kiss you goodnight it a minute.”

There’s been some shouting downstairs. I’m trying to listen but it’s mostly inaudible.

I doubt I’ll be able to sleep much tonight. My hands caning, although luckily I did have the sense to hold out my right hand so I can still write.