His Majesty, The Queen

Nothing Can Shock Me Any Longer

It was the last class of the day, and Sherlock was staring across the room at Professor Trevor, allowing himself to wonder. The man didn't notice his preoccupation; he didn't seem to realize that there were eyes that were seeing straight through whatever persona of dormancy he put on, whatever mask of normality he donned with the help of the English government and the new life of an emigration. The man seemed calm, passionate even as he went on and on about the final days of the civil war, of the battle of Gettysburg that changed the tide of the entire war. He seemed excited and careless, as most people were towards the final days of the week. Tomorrow's home football game had put everyone into good spirits, and for once the entire class seemed to be attentive and even social. The boys who never spoke at all even dared some small talk to each other, wondering about who was going to the game and who was going to be playing in it. Sherlock's little friend group suddenly became superstars, as they were the oldest and best players on the whole team. They were getting high fives and pats on the back almost hourly now, as the game drew nearer and nearer. They were basking in the glory, though Sherlock could tell there was a sense of apprehension in all of them. Their nerves were building as the game got closer and the pressure began to mound on their shoulders, reminding them that the whole school was going to be out to cheer them on. The whole school would be watching, there to cheer when they won and cry when they lost. It was pressure enough for Atlas, and Sherlock had to just sit back and watch his ever so confident friends begin to adapt just a sliver of doubt in themselves and in their abilities, worried now to come tumbling off of their pedestals if ever they shattered underneath them. Though all the while class was going on, Sherlock couldn't think about the game. He could only sit there and ponder what he should say to Professor Trevor, if he should even say anything at all! He knew that the man could offer him advice, on what to do and what not to do when approaching such a forbidden and frankly illegal relationship. Perhaps the man would give no advice at all, perhaps he would cut ties forever and refuse to let Sherlock anywhere near him, on the off chance that their secrets would be leaked and linked just as soon as they began to dabble in the worlds that were best left untouched, and speak the words that were better left unsaid. They could discus love, in such a manner that they didn't have to censor their words, or put a filter on their mouths! They didn't have to change pronouns; they didn't have to dull emotions so as to make it more socially acceptable. They could admit things that no other ears could have tolerated, and in turn become more comfortable with who they had both grown to be. Perhaps there was no need to be ashamed of the feelings that you couldn't control, perhaps men with such hearts were given no choice but to bond together and move forward with their lives, using their knowledge and their mistakes to better the chances of the next generation. And perhaps someday, with the help of a great number and the success of a pitiful few, perhaps someday a match might be made. A proper match, and meaningful one...Sherlock couldn't help but turn his eyes towards John, that boy sitting there bored out of his mind and flicking the edge of his pencil against the grooves of the wooden desk. Perhaps theirs would be the match that succeeded, if only he could recruit an ally to get him there. When the class let out Sherlock got hesitantly to his feet, shooing his friends out with quick little mutters of goodbye and good luck as they headed down to the football field to get their final practice in before the big game. All three of them looked apprehensive, as if they were wishing that Friday might have lasted forever, making sure that Saturday night could never come to pass. However time was ticking just as it always had, and before long Sherlock found himself and that mysterious Professor standing alone in the room as they so often seemed to do. Thankfully he door had been shut, and Trevor was standing at his desk and arranging his papers and things back into his bag, looking preoccupied yet happy to see that Sherlock had lingered back to talk. He knew there was a friendship blossoming between them, ever since tea that hazy Sunday afternoon they had developed at least a mutual appreciation for the other. Thankfully it wasn't awkward then, when Sherlock apprehensively approached the desk. A million ways to phrase this question went bouncing around in his head, though not one of them sounded quite acceptable. There was a delicate way to phrase this, one that very well might end up being a paragraph long, yet he would certainly be cut off before he finished. He needed to be quick and to the point, just in case Professor Trevor shooed him out the door without another word. This conversation, well it would make or break their friendship. One misstep here, one word spoken too soon, would send them falling through the thin ice they were standing on, and into the cold and murky depths below.
"Are you going to the football game tomorrow night?" Professor Trevor wondered, shutting a nice leather bookmark into a textbook before standing it up onto the spine and tilting it back and forth a bit awkwardly. He was, above all other things, rather an uncomfortable conversationalist.
"Yes, yes I thought I ought to go and support my friends." Sherlock agreed.
"The whole school will be there, I guarantee it. This is one of the biggest games of the year, and this year it's going to prove to be quite the match. They're evenly balanced, or so I've heard through the gossip." The Professor said with a little chuckle, shaking his head as if he disregarded rumors and went to shoving that book into his bag. Sherlock nodded, fumbling with the straps of his own bag as he wondered at last if he should say what was coming to his mind, if he should admit what he so desperately wanted to spit out there to the world. If it was worth it or not, to lose this friendship over the off chance that it could become stronger?
"Professor, I wanted to ask you something." Sherlock said at last, taking a rather deep breath as he felt his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Professor Trevor hummed to say that he was listening, leaning heavily on the desk with his palms and looking quite docile, certainly not like a man who was expecting a rather rough surprise. Sherlock almost hated to ruin his afternoon, after admitting he had guessed at the man's tragic backstory.
"I'm sorry; I don't really know how to phrase it lightly. I'm afraid...well it's a delicate matter really." Sherlock admitted in a quiet voice, shaking his head and staring down at the floor now, too afraid to really look his Professor in the eyes any longer.
"Well I'm sure nothing can shock me any longer, especially not after having slummed it with the Americans for so long." The Professor laughed, though Sherlock seriously doubted the honesty of such a statement. Certainly no matter how prepared that man thought he was, this question would undoubtedly leave him speechless. Sherlock rather hoped it didn't, as he wanted a reassuring answer just as soon as possible, though he appreciated that the Professor probably hadn't ever discussed this with anyone before. In fact, ever since he left England he probably hadn't met a soul who had known, or one who would understand.
"Okay. Well then...I suppose that I'm coming to you for relationship advice, really. I've found myself at a loss, and you're the only one I can think to turn to." Sherlock admitted at last, his face glowing red as he looked up at the Professor, who had donned that unknowing smile upon his face. That helpful smile, that smile which meant he really had no idea what was coming.
"Oh well, I don't consider myself an expert, really." Professor Trevor admitted with a little chuckle, as if he was embarrassed at the fact that he had almost no dating experience at all. Though that was typical, wasn't it? That was exactly the reaction any homosexual would give, when encountering a question they presumed they could not answer.
"I thought perhaps...perhaps you might have experience. I thought perhaps..." Sherlock could hardly get the words out, his voice almost breaking in his throat as all of his body refused to spit out such a statement. His throat closed, so as to keep the words from slipping out and declaring once and for all Sherlock's position on the matter, and therefore his feelings on romance.
"Oh don't be nervous." Professor Trevor assured, though his voice was wavering in a rather suspicious manner, as if he was beginning to feel that there was more to this request than what he had first assumed. As if he was beginning to realize that there was more yet to come, and nothing any easier to declare.
"Professor I thought perhaps you might be a homosexual." Sherlock admitted at once, closing his eyes just as soon as he spat that phrase out so as not to see the man's reaction, so as to block out that donning look of fury. For a long while it was silent, and Sherlock found himself clinging to the strap of his bag as if it was something of a lifeline, as if it was going to save him from the mess he had just insisted on making. As if somehow clinging to the world was going to help him climb out of the hole he had just dug for himself and promptly jumped into. When he was brave enough to open his eyes he found the Professor leaning heavily on his desk, staring down at the floor and taking long, slow breaths. He couldn't tell if the man was crying or fuming, though it certainly wasn't the positive and friendly reaction he had been hoping for. If Professor Trevor had wanted to help then he would have done something by now, something other than hold his entire weight onto the desk and breath like his lungs had just collapsed. At last the man managed to raise his head, and when he turned his face to Sherlock the boy hardly recognized him. Whatever color there had ever been inside of his cheeks had vanished, and instead he was looking as pale and as clammy as the undead. He might have managed an excuse; he might have denied the whole thing, though his words would mean nothing. For his face betrayed it all, his expression spoke much louder than he would ever manage with that now failing voice.
"Sherlock, don't ever speak that word again." he whispered, his voice taught and terrified, his arms now trembling as he struggled to stay upright.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock insisted, the only words he could think to spit out right now. "But I'm not going to tell anyone, I was just hoping that maybe you could help me..."
"I don't want to know where you got that idea; I don't want to even consider who you had to ask. But for you to assume that by blackmailing me I might help you with your illegal escapades...it is unthinkable. It is insulting." Professor Trevor growled, falling at last into his desk chair with his dangling and powerless limbs, though his eyes spoke what his words could not. It was hatred there, behind those shining blues. It was disgust. And so perhaps Sherlock was wrong, perhaps the man had never identified as such. Perhaps Sherlock had accidentally declared his own feelings to a man who was unreceptive, and would promptly turn him over to the headmaster or to the police.
"Professor..." Sherlock managed, though his voice gave up once more. This time, however, the man did not encourage him to go on. This time there was not a hint of softness in that usually friendly creature, for now he seemed too afraid to manage anything except a goodbye. And so, ultimately, that was all that Sherlock could do. He didn't want to say goodbye, for he knew that the longer he stood in Trevor's presence the longer the man had to formulate his counter attack. The longer he stood here, the more risk he put himself in for the headmaster to be summoned, and for him to be taken back to Europe in chains for correction. He had made a mess of this whole thing, yet found his own regrettable words floating in the air nonetheless. Floating between himself and the professor with no promise of fading away anytime soon. And so he just ran, racing out of the classroom door feeling about ready to cry, wondering what he had just done to himself, what he had just done to John. Perhaps this was the end of it all, the end of what he might have accomplished if he only had some help. Perhaps he was destined to the same tragic fate of Professor, that is if he was right about the man's backstory after all.