His Majesty, The Queen

Your Secret is Your Life

Classes began the next day, throwing the boys back into their age old patterns of suffering every other day with different teachers, struggling to complete homework for the deadlines, and cramming their brains with knowledge for a test. They certainly weren't happy for the revitalized schedule; however Sherlock was rather thankful for something that was at least predictable. A schedule was well accepted, when over the break he seemed to be procrastinating and wasting time more effectively than ever. Nevertheless something seemed to be off, even after they had fallen back into their old habits. There was something within their group dynamic that simply didn't fit back into place as nicely as it had in the past. Maybe it was just Sherlock who was feeling the tension, as everyone was in good spirits; everyone was cheerful and happy to be reunited. Perhaps it was only Sherlock who felt like a great rock had been placed in between the gang, blocking him out and making it impossible for him to integrate back into the group he knew so well. That rock must have been his own guilt, it must have been a little part of his mind reminding him that he had allowed scandal to touch these easy going boys, he had allowed passion to cloud his judgment and given himself the capabilities of ruining a perfect relationship between two people who love each other. That guilt sat like a stone in the middle of his mind, though it was much heavier with the realization that he would do it all over again, if John wanted to. Sherlock sat next to John once again in art class, though today they were supposed to be painting landscapes which had been provided to them by Mrs. Hudson. She had these ancient photographs that she passed along, some depicting the forest, others beaches, and even some city landscapes that looked terribly difficult to draw. In the end Sherlock had been handed a river, and so it was his job now to try to immortalize that river onto his canvas, using only these few bottles of paint which were still filled. John sat next to him, struggling over how to paint a coral reef when the red paint had been all used up. His frustration didn't seem to last long, however, for as soon as Mrs. Hudson turned her eyes away from the two of them John let his leg drift a little farther off of his stool than usual, so that it could bump into Sherlock's leg to get his attention. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, trying to be sure that no one was going to overhear their conversation. For whatever reason he had a sense that it might be a private matter, and they might not want Greg or Mike to be listening in. Thankfully they were very occupied with their artistic tasks, as Greg had been assigned a landscape that looked like Paris, and was struggling now to even pick a spot to begin.
"What?" Sherlock whispered, feeling his hands shake as he tried to predict just what John would have to say to him.
"Can I have the blue?" John said back, looking over to Sherlock with some passiveness as he held out his hand for the bottle of paint. Sherlock sighed with some very obvious disappointment, though he handed the bottle over and allowed John to get back to his ocean painting.
"Expecting something else, were you?" John wondered after a few moments of concentration, as he was mixing the blue paint with the white, so as to make a rather foamy color to use for the waves.
"Expecting you to say something else?" Sherlock presumed quietly, his eyes darting back around the classroom and seeing that they were unobserved.
"Hoping for me to say something else, rather." John said with a smug little grin, spinning his paintbrush within the pallet in a very rhythmic way before beginning to paint upon his canvas.
"I can't think of anything else you would say." Sherlock whispered anxiously, though his voice was taught enough to betray his own expectations. Well of course he was hoping for John to say something else, though John couldn't know that just yet. If he knew Sherlock had been wishing for something well then certainly he would know that it meant a great deal to him, in fact he may even suspect the love that was flourishing in Sherlock's poor and inexperienced heart.
"I can think of a few things." John breathed, keeping his eyes fixed firmly upon his painting all the while Sherlock turned into quite the needed shade of red. This was the first time John had even hinted upon the subject of their affair, as he had been trying to keep things normal for the past week and a half. He hadn't even acknowledged that the thing had happened since he left the room last night, and just now it was rather odd for him to be talking seductively. Especially in a setting like this, in an art class that was practically silent.
"You know, Sherlock, it's been a while." John pointed out.
"Surely you can't be..."
"It's been a bit too long, for my taste." John interrupted, making Sherlock silence himself immediately and purse his lips in some humiliation.
"I thought perhaps you had left that behind. After thanksgiving with Mary's speech..." Sherlock muttered, letting his words drag on so that John could use context clues. He certainly didn't want to phrase his whole argument while there might be some eavesdroppers in the crowd.
"As I said before, there's nothing to leave behind. It's just...it's just a pastime." John defended with something of a little growl. "Mary can't blame me for having a hobby, can she?"
"That's not an argument that would hold up in court." Sherlock muttered a bit weakly, all the while John shook his head in annoyance.
"Surely you don't care about that, do you?" John insisted, letting one of his hands slide over onto Sherlock's shoulder, letting his paint covered fingers touch upon Sherlock's neck and play into his bottom most curls. Sherlock shivered just as soon as John's skin made contact, and for an uncontrollable moment he had the urge to lean into his touch, he wanted to merely forget the crowd and end up sharing the stool with John, he wanted to kiss him once again...
"John." Sherlock hissed, practically forcing himself to smack the other boy's hand away. John merely chuckled, grabbing onto his paintbrush once again and going on with his painting as if nothing had happened. The two fell back into silence, all the while Sherlock's eyes kept wandering over to where John still had something of a smirk upon his face. He wondered just what was in store for him tonight, and if John's newfound need for love was going to interrupt their studying down in the library.