His Majesty, The Queen

And Life Goes On

When Sherlock arrived back to his room he found that it was empty, though thankfully there was no signs of Greg's foul excretions anywhere around the trash can. Certainly he had cleaned up after himself, as the window was open and there was a rather poor smell of candle smoke, as if he had attempted to make the room smell flowery before ultimately giving up and blowing the candle out. Sherlock was okay with the privacy, as he was feeling rather dreadful and wanted to just sit and write his letter in peace. He knew that this would be about the third letter to Mycroft which had piled up on the way to the post office, though his life was just moving too fast to justify anything else. Mycroft would be happy; certainly he would love to hear about Sherlock's time at school, though in a way Sherlock didn't want to make it sound like he was bragging. He didn't want to rub it in Mycroft's face that their father obviously preferred him to his brother, yet he couldn't help but pull out his pen and paper and draft out the beginnings of a new letter. There were so many things to confess, though not all of them would make the letter. Certainly he involvements at the party would remain a secret, as well as the mistakes he had made along the way. He would not speak of spin the bottle, or hangovers, or even sneaking out. A party would be all that he mentioned, along with short snippets of his friend's pass times and behavior throughout the night. He wanted to make it humorous, though not in a way that might criminalize them all. At last Sherlock got to the meeting with Professor Trevor, admitting to Mycroft the strange ways the man had described his heritage, his escape from England, and his ineligibility. He asked why medical records could prevent an immigrant from serving in the military, especially when he seemed to be in perfect health? And what would the government have business with, changing him around, when he didn't seem to be any sort of revolutionary or war criminal? They were enigmas Sherlock couldn't hope to solve, and so he merely packaged them up into an envelope and sent his questions to France, presuming there was someone on the front lines that might be able to help. Sherlock checked his watch as soon as he folded up the envelope, seeing now that the time was nearly three o'clock and still there was no sign of his roommate. Oh well that was no tragedy, nor was it a surprise. He was probably out with John, planning on how they might cut their awkward little friend out of their lives without making it too obvious. Surely they had enough of him, now that he made his true 'intentions' known. And so Sherlock decided to take a walk, assuming that it was the best excuse to be alone all the while ensuring he got some fresh air. The poor thin had been cooped up all day, breathing in the same recycled oxygen as hundreds of other boys, certainly some time spent on the lawns would be well spent. And so he grabbed his camera from where it sat on the desk, wrapping the strap around his neck and starting his way outside and towards the pond. He had become a fan of the little spot ever since he needed to find a hideaway during the boy's football practices, as it was hardly ever populated and it was far enough off the main grounds so that no one would spot him off in the distance. The only way someone would happen across him is if they were headed to the docks themselves, that or they were looking for him intentionally. Though at the moment Sherlock considered the latter very doubtful, and so he made his way down to the docks with half a heart to think that he would not be discovered until he had walked all the way back up to the school himself. No, no one would be looking for him any longer. Sherlock tread lightly across the wooden planks of the dock, tiptoeing carefully so as to make sure he didn't break through one of the boards by forcing all of his weight atop of it. That would prove to be yet another disastrous occurrence, all in the span of twenty four hours. At last Sherlock plopped himself down on the dock, taking up his camera and looking for anything very interesting to photograph. There were some floating reeds that were nice, as well as a perfectly formed lily pad with a flower emerging from behind it. Yes, that might make a good picture. And so Sherlock held the camera up to his eye, straining for a good angle before at last snapping a winner. Hopefully he could get all of these photographs developed, as they were starting to pile up on the film without real hope of being immortalized. Surely the memories captured between camera flashes were previous to him, and therefore needed to be developed before they were lost by age and time. For a long while Sherlock sat out on the dock, laying back onto the wood with his camera on his eye, taking pictures of the interesting cloud formations that rolled merrily by. He had the intention of sending them to Mycroft with his own descriptions of what they looked like, though on a second thought he decided that would be the last thing Mycroft wanted to bother himself with. The poor man was fighting for his life, all the while Sherlock was finding dog shaped clouds and thinking them memorable enough to immortalize onto film. It was child's play, honestly. Though it was enough to pass the time. Perhaps ten minutes into staring exclusively through the camera lens Sherlock's eye began to tire, and just as he went to move the camera away something large and black covered the lens, shocking the poor boy so badly that he nearly rolled into the water in fright. He gave a scream of horror, figuring that one of the bears had come to investigate the stagnant school boy, though the familiar chorus of laughter was a sure sign that he was among friends, not predators. Sherlock tucked the camera onto his chest and craned his neck from where he lay on the very edge of the dock- one more roll and he would've fallen into the mud and the reeds, making quite the show for his three onlookers. The gang was all here, and that was what concerned Sherlock the most. Right as soon as he saw John standing by the shore of the pond he recollected himself, sitting up on the dock and clutching to his camera almost for protection, like a scared child strangling their teddy bear after they saw a monster in the closet.
"What on earth were you doing?" Greg teased, wobbling a bit back and forth to see if the dock would shake. It did give some suspicious wiggles, causing ripples along the smooth surface of the mucky water.
"I was taking pictures of the clouds." Sherlock defended, though his words were perhaps much more sophisticated in his head.
"You really need to get yourself a hobby." Greg suggested, to which Sherlock scoffed.
"I have one; it's just there's nothing better to photograph around here." Sherlock defended, glancing once more at John to see that the boy was busying himself poking at some rocks along the shoreline with his toe.
"Well you could always photograph me. I'm pretty handsome." Greg suggested, striking a stupid little pose and making Sherlock scowl.
"The camera does have limits, too many horrible photos and the lens cracks. It's too expensive a camera to jeopardize in such a way." Sherlock warned. Greg frowned, looking back to his friends for support yet finding that they were preoccupied. The boys were all dressed in their football jerseys and cleats, which at least offered an explanation to their exclusive disappearance. Part of Sherlock felt relieved that they hadn't been excluding him, though the other half began to feel nervous about the whole situation. Were they returning to him with the thought that everything could go back to normal? Were they all prepared just to forget about the incident, and let Sherlock simmer in his own embarrassment before he burst? Or perhaps were they only including him for a couple more days, just to gauge him to see if the compatibility was still there. Or perhaps they were setting him up into even more of a humiliating situation, with the intention of ruining his reputation once and for all? Were they that evil, did they have such potential? Mike began to throw the football up in the sky, running about to catch it and looking quite foolish. That display of childishness, well it was at least enough to ease Sherlock's mind. Perhaps they weren't hatching up an evil plan at all...perhaps they were merely continuing on with their friendship despite what had happened at Mary's. Perhaps John didn't even remember at all.
"We were going to head to dinner, wondering if you were hungry?" Greg admitted at last, calling back to the purpose of their visit rather than dragging his name through the mud once more.
"Well yes, I suppose I could force down something bland." He decided, though there was some hesitation straining within the depths of his stomach. Something telling him that close quarters with John would still be a very uncomfortable affair. Though just like showering, well he couldn't make the mistake of modesty again. He just needed to continue on with his life as it demanded him to proceed, lest when at last he fell back to normal ways it became way too much of a production than it needed to be. No, best pretend like nothing had happened and mend the bond without acknowledging the original tear. That way their little friend group could be reunited without too much of a show, and all could fall back to the way it used to be. Al except the conflict which still raged inside of Sherlock, the moral battle of deciding if it was worth falling in love or not...
"I guess you're lucky everything's bland at the dining hall." Mike called back, hurling the football rather agressivley in John's direction. The boy didn't turn in time, and while he had reached for the thing as it came flying he instead rather smacked it off towards the pond, and with a splash the football sat floating in the muck and the lilies. For a while the boys stared at the football, which was sitting well within arm's reach in the pond, with a look of absolute helplessness. For whatever reason Sherlock was struck with the feeling that it would have to be left to elements, that the ball would be left to sink under the slimy water for the rest of its now useless life.
"Oh great going John." Greg complained. Sherlock looked towards him almost apologetically, as if presuming that his miscalculations were entirely due to the fact that he was preoccupied with who was sitting on the dock. Perhaps his reflexes were off, due to his heightened fight or flight reactions.
"I'll get it." John groaned, the first word Sherlock had heard from his lips since that misplaced suggestion, the moment before the kiss. His voice was still ringing within his head, completely lose your mind. Well Sherlock had followed those instructions to a tee, didn't he? And look where that left him now. John picked his way towards the shoreline, kneeling down on the mud and stretching his arm about as far as it would go. Still it was no use, the football floated right beyond in fingers in an almost mocking sense, as if it was demanding he call for aid from the tallest member of their group. Sherlock as still seated fearfully on the docks, feeling as though he was not allowed to watch for much longer, as if his looking at John would cause them both another series of embarrassing events.
"Could um, could someone help?" John muttered, looking half ready to stick his leg in and try to catch it with his longer limb. Then again that would require much more contortion that he had to offer, and so he sat rather stupidly on the shore, looking at anyone but Sherlock for help.
"Ask Mr. Elastic here, he'd be sure to help." Greg suggested, patting Sherlock on the back like a proud mother displaying her son at a talent show, one that he had not voluntarily signed up for. The look on Sherlock's face was quite akin to what it might have been for the longsuffering child, the spotlight that was not appreciated, and the eye contact that seemed to bore directly into his soul...
"Sherlock, do you mind?" John muttered, getting to his feet at last as if to admit to his own defeat. Sherlock stared for a little bit, blinking as he scrambled at last to his feet. It was a bit fearful to be directly addressed, and he knew of course that both of his onlookers were waiting anxiously to see if he wouldn't muck this interaction up. It was the first time they had spoken since the party, and surely there was a lot on the line.
"Ya, ya of course." Sherlock agreed, practically running off of the dock and setting his camera reluctantly down in the grass. John backed up, allowing Sherlock the proper spot of retrieval and looking actually quite timid. As if he felt that he was the one who had to be guilty, or apologetic. As if he was the one afraid. Sherlock knelt down by the shoreline and captured the football rather easily; his fingers just long enough to pull it in his direction so that he might have a better grip. At last he threw the disgusting mass of soggy leather up into the mud, wiping off his hands daintily and without a word. Mike gave a little whoop of appreciation, all the while John picked the ball up with very reluctant hands, looking quite unsure what to do with it now. Sherlock got to his feet, wiping off his knees and groaning at the mud stains that had been made on his school trousers. Well surely he'd look like a fool for a good couple of days until he could get these things through the wash!
"Thanks." John managed, though his voice was tight in his throat, a mere squeak.
"No problem." Sherlock assured, and with that (and without another look towards John) he retrieved his camera and started the way up to the dining hall, unsure if anyone was following or not until at last he heard their footsteps falling behind him on the stone floors of the entry way. Dinner was an uncomfortable affair, in which Sherlock sat opposite of John and had to keep finding ways to keep his head down without making it seem like he was avoiding eye contact. He cut his food up into the smallest portions he could, and therefore busying himself with his knife, and then continued to sort them all into piles on either side of the plate. He wasn't hungry enough to eat it all, as his stomach was still recovering from its purge the night before, though if shoving food in his mouth was the only way to keep out of the conversation then certainly he would have to use that method. Greg and Mike were discussing their girlfriends, as it would seem that their nights had gone splendidly. Mike had rekindled with Sarah, Greg had fallen even more in love with Molly (a love he expressed quite like a lovesick girl, which seemed so humorously innocent for him), and everything seemed to be going well. Sherlock might have enjoyed their conversations, had it not been prying up the subject of that accursed party. Just when Sherlock thought they might all forget about that night Greg had to keep bringing up the time Molly kissed him on the dance floor, or the time Mike had taken a shot of vodka with Sarah, or the time they had kissed their beloveds goodbye and promised to write. Each occurrence kept dragging that night back into relevancy, to the point where Sherlock almost wanted to change the subject to keep his face from heating up too much.
"And what about you, John? How's Mary?" Greg asked at last, to which both Sherlock and John raised their shameful heads up in unison. They both looked quite shocked, as if they were being interrogated for something that they hadn't yet admitted to.
"Mary's fine." He managed at last. "Just the same old Mary, quite...quite nice."
"That's good." Mike muttered. "I saw you two were getting really quite friendly."
"Yes." John agreed, managing just a quick glance over at Sherlock before ducking his head back down in shame. Obviously neither of them wanted to make direct eye contact, and it was shocking for them both when their glances met accidentally.
"And Janine?" Greg wondered, looking towards Sherlock with the little hope that perhaps a fire had kindled between the two without his noticing.
"Janine...no. No, we didn't get along very well." He admitted at last, now keeping his face turned down so obviously that his nose was nearly dipped into his torn up baked potato.
"Well that's a shame." Mike managed, noticing that Greg had merely raised his eyebrows and continued on with his dinner without another comment. Surely he had something to say, though decided against running their lovely dinner together.
"Not really." Sherlock assured, to which Mike managed a little chuckle of agreement.
"I agree, she really is the most distasteful girl." He muttered, looking up towards his friends for support. Greg was still avoiding inputting his own opinion to the matter, whereas John was staring glassy eyed into his plate, looking no closer to blinking than actually submitting his input. The boy looked terrified, which only made Sherlock more hesitant to continue on with their friendship, or even their proximity! He was making this into a big deal, wasn't he? He felt threatened by Sherlock's very presence, terrified even with hundreds of boys as his witness! Afraid that Sherlock might leap over the table right now and take his head in his hands, kissing him like they did on the floor of the parlor, kissing him so as to recreate the fire which had burned inside of his body. But no, no Sherlock wasn't a fool. He wanted to stay legal here in the colonies, lest he be sent back home to England with some sort of permanent record. Not that he was intending to do anything rash, not that he had yet decided he even wanted to. 
 "Sherlock, how was your meeting with Professor Trevor?" Greg wondered, seeing at last that everyone had been made very uncomfortable with their original topic of conversation. 

"Oh it was interesting." Sherlock admitted, thinking now to how many interesting confessions the Professor had made during the duration of the meeting. Now that he considered it, he decided that perhaps it was best to keep those facts to himself for now. God forbid they end up being condemning, and they lead to a conclusion that anyone else could see but Sherlock. Perhaps they could get the poor man in trouble if his interesting backstory fell in the wrong hands.
"Talk much about England?" Mike presumed.
"A lot, yes. He's got a Union Jack right on the back wall of his office, and we had English breakfast tea. Felt just like home." Sherlock admitted with a happy little grin.
"I'm sure you miss home?" Greg guessed, to which Sherlock shrugged. He hadn't thought of home in a long while, not now that his life was ever the more interesting. He was too busy to even reminisce about his days in London, lest even miss them! And now looking back, looking back to the rather mundane and sheltered life he had lived...well perhaps here at Mazarin it was in fact preferable.
"I don't really know." Sherlock admitted, which was admittedly a very poor answer indeed.
"You don't know?" Mike laughed in clarification, thinking that perhaps Sherlock had gone crazy rather than simply becoming conflicted.
"Well yes, when you think about both sides...well they're nice in their own ways." Sherlock admitted quietly, not entirely wanting to elaborate on that too much. Thankfully the boys got the message and stopped pestering, though once that conversation had concluded no one seemed to know what to continue on with. For whatever reason they seemed quite exhausted of any sort of conversation, and so they finished off the rest of their dinners in silence. Sherlock honestly wasn't sure which he would have preferred, considering their conversation kept touching upon topics that really were better left unsaid. Then again, the silence became rather deafening, until Sherlock found himself minding his own chewing speed at the fear that someone was listening in and judging him harshly.