Coping

Chapter 7

Sherlock

"Sherlock?" John gently shook Sherlock's shoulders, waking him. "Sherlock," he repeated, louder this time, "er, it's, er, Monday. Monday morning? The first day of classes." Sherlock groaned and pushed John's hand off of his shoulder. "Well, it's six thirty, and our first class is at eight. So. Um,"

"Go away," Sherlock groaned. Rolling dramatically onto his side, Redbeard groaned as well.

John hovered nervously by the bed, checking the clock. He knew there was plenty of time, but Mycroft had given him explicit instructions. "Your brother told me to wake you up before six thirty. It's six thirty now. Please?"

Sherlock spoke loudly through his pillow, "Him? Mycroft? You can ignore him."

"I - Please? Just - I just -" John sighed. "Please? I don't want to upset him."

Sherlock did not move, so John reached for Redbeard, and pried him off the bed. "Hey!" Sherlock said, sitting up. "That's my dog! Don't -" he groaned again. "Fine." And with that, he stood up angrily, but not before untangling his feet from the bed sheets. With a loud thud and a strangled cry from Redbeard, Sherlock landed in a muddled heap on the floor, his elbow digging into the tail of his service dog.

"Oh, let me help you," John reached for Sherlock's arm, but it was hastily yanked out of his grip.

"I'm fine." Sherlock stood up slowly and indignantly, reaching out to redbeard for light support.

"Oh - uh - okay - I'll just..." John stammered a reply, awkwardly backing away to sit on his own bed. He was dressed and ready, but wasn't allowed to leave Sherlock alone. So he sat on his bed in silence for the next hour, awaiting his roommate's return from the shower.

---

The English teacher made his way slowly around the classroom, passing out a book to each student. "Good morning," he began.

"Good morning," approximately four students mumbled. The teacher stood still and looked incredulously around the classroom.

"That won't work for me! Good morning!" The teacher waved his hands about, attempting to extract a bigger reply.

A couple more people joined the mumble. "Why, with that kind of response, one would think it was a Monday morning!" Pausing again his journey through the classroom, the teacher laughed loudly at his own joke. Several children looked confused; others looked bored. Sherlock only looked annoyed. Realizing that he wasn't going to get much out of the children, Mr. Shrew continued to pass out The Catcher in the Rye.

John caught eye contact with him when he handed him his and Sherlock's books, only to wish that he hadn't. Mr. Shrew gave him a very pitying look and delicately placed Sherlock's copy in John's hands.

"Hey," John whispered to Sherlock, handing him his book. "Looks like we'll be reading The Catcher in the Rye."

"Oh, does it?" Sherlock said sarcastically as he picked up the book and opened it, running his fingers over the page and pausing with an almost amused expression on his face. "Um. John?"

"Huh? Oh, what?" John leaned over and looked to where Sherlock's fingers had stopped on the page. "Oh." Letting out a soft laugh, John felt the page himself. Then Sherlock laughed. And then John laughed. And then they were both bursting at the seams in a failed attempt at silent giggles.

Mr. Shrew stopped and turned around. "Is there a problem?" He sighed.

Composing himself, Sherlock closed his book and held it out to the teacher. "I... It's just..." He said between heavy breaths. "I can't read Braille. Not yet, anyway."