Johnlock - Do I Wanna Know?

1 - Are You Alright?

Most stared blankley at the windows, watching the raindrops splash on the glass and slide down into the brick frame. Some students made an attempt to listen to their teacher, few succeded.

Then there was the lone boy who sat in the very back of the room, the boy with one friend, and a father who hits him. Yet he was still smarter than his classmates, but the impact of his homelife caused his effort levels to drop.

He sat with his arms crossed, glaring at his teacher as if it would make him stop the lesson.

"Erwin Panofsky, born March 30, 1892. Died March 14, 1968. A German Art Historian, and the man you'll be doing a report on, along with a replicated painting."

Everyone groaned, although none of the students were surprised. Their history teacher, Mr. Watson, had been known for his long assignments.

John began passing out papers, ignoring his student's complaining. "Now here are the guidelines to the painting,"

"Can't we do a project on someone more exciting?" said a young, annoyed student.

Mr. Watson glanced to the back of the room, smiling weakly at the young man. "No,"

The boy smirked, he enjoyed the little moment of attention. "Fucking boring."

Every pair of eyes in the tiny classroom was now on him. His only friend sitting next to him made numerous faces that all meant, 'shut the hell up, man.'

"Mr. Holmes," his teacher snapped.

"Sorry, Mr. Watson, just trying to create a more fun environment in all this bullshit,"

John tilted his head to the floor, glaring at Sherlock over his glasses. "See me after class,"

Sherlock, stared wide eyed, mouth parted in disbelief.

"Now I have detention for swearing?" he whispered.

Mr. Watson resumed his lesson, and passed out the rest of the papers.

"You're an idiot,"

"Shut up, Lestrade." Sherlock muttered.

~

"So," Mr. Watson sat on the edge of his desk and smiled. "What's going on?"

Sherlock glanced at his teacher, quiet shocked that he wasn't asked to apologize.

"What do you mean?"

"I assume there is something to blame for your outburst today."

"No?"

Sherlock's fingers wrapped around the straps of his backpack, slung over each shoulder in a normal fashion. He shifted weight awkwardly, trying his best to avoid eye contact with John.

"Before I start to babble, you should know that I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable or annoyed... I just, know that outbursts at your age are caused either by a broken household, or natural occurrences."

John had to look away himself, hinting puberty to a 17 year old boy couldn't get anymore awkward.

"Oh, god..." Sherlock smacked his lips. "Mr. Watson, I'd rather not -"

"That's totally fine,"

John stood and fixed his glasses, then made his way around the desk to gather paper work.

Sherlock stood in place awkwardly, mouth parted as if he was going to say something, but of course nothing came out.

"School is over, Sherlock. You're going to miss the bus, or do you have a ride?"

"I um, usually have a ride, well..." he walked over to the window and peered into the parking lot. "Well my father sometimes gives me a ride, but he's not here. I think, I think I'll just walk."

"...Alright, I'll see you tomorrow then," Mr. Watson smiled. "Have a good afternoon,"

Sherlock nodded, heading for the door. But something in his 17-year-old-boy mind made him turn back around.

"Are you going to make me apologize?"

John looked up, a smile touching his lips. "I can't make you do anything. And I could be wrong, but I think something is bothering you, which caused the little outburst. You're very, very smart, Sherlock. You don't have a bad record. So, no, I'm not going to ask you to apologize,"

Sherlock nodded again, staring at his feet thinkingly.

"Well then, I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Watson."

John waved, and once again he was almost out of the classroom when he stopped himself. He didn't turn back around though. He froze, halfway out the door, one hand on the doorframe.

"I'm sorry,"

And he was gone.

John stared at the empty doorway, surprised expression twitching into a relieved grin.

"He's... He's a good kid."

~

He winced as the door squeaked upon opening, clenching his teeth uncomfortably. His shoulders were raised to his ears, tension and fear written all over his face.

Silence.

Shoulders lowering a quarter of an inch, hoping no one was home. Praying, no one was home.

The chipping door clicked shut behind him. Sherlock sighed as he knew he was able to get into the house quietly enough.

Removing his worn brown sneakers, he threw them onto the pile of shoes near the door. Then he tip toed his way upstairs, freezing suddenly when a step creaked loudly. Once upstairs, he slipped into his room and shut the door.

"Shit," he whispered, the realization of his exhaustion hitting him like a brick.

Sherlock dropped his torn blue book bag by the door. He proceeded to remove his jeans and jumper, leaving him comfortably in his briefs and white tank top.

"And I thought I could read people like a book," he muttered.

He looked around his small room. He had a white dresser, but most of the paint was chipping off to expose a wooden brown. It had three drawers, which was more than enough for his little amount of clothes.
Then he had a long body sized mirror, cracked and falling off the hooks in the wall. He had gotten mad about god knows what a few years back, and punched his reflection. Resulting in it's now cracked and rough surface.
And the last piece of furniture in his room was the bed, which was really a mattress laying on a large piece of cardboard. No sheets, no bed board or frame. Just one pillow without a case, and one cotton blanket that he had owned since he was about six. It was impossible to fit his entire body underneath it all, not even if he curled into a ball.

Sighing, Sherlock fell onto the mattress. He fell asleep within seconds, his favorite teacher and his wise words on his mind.