"How's your face healing up?" Victor wondered as they walked down the senior hallway, through the crowd of cheerleaders who all did their usual double takes, giggling and pointing as the two went by.
"I have to reposition my nose all of the time. I'm afraid this time it's really broken." Sherlock complained, scuffing his feet against the tile as if to take his frustration out on the floor.
"It looks straight to me." Victor commented, craning his neck to get a better angle.
"I'm shocked. I distinctly remember you saying nothing about me was straight." Sherlock pointed out.
"And I stand by it! In fact, I feel as though I have the final evidence to prove my case." Victor agreed excitedly.
"There's a case now? Wow, I feel honored." Sherlock grumbled.
"It's been right in front of my face this entire time, but yesterday proved it entirely. There's an unspoken truth, a pining behind years of resentment, a love that has been lost in rivalry..."
"Victor, quit your poetry." Sherlock snarled, loosening his backpack upon his shoulder in case he had to use it as a bludgeoning device.
"Well, you and John of course." Victor chuckled. "A match made in Hell."
"Surely you're joking?" Sherlock scoffed, trying to keep his face turned away so as to hide his true feelings.
"Ah, exactly the denial I was expecting!" Victor exclaimed.
"What else am I going to do, agree? God Victor, what were you smoking this morning?" Sherlock grumbled.
"Oh please, the way he jumped to your aid? As if to say to the world, 'I'm the only one allowed to punch that face!' and the way you clung to him when you woke, as if declaring 'I know that I can trust you, despite all you've done!' It's art, Sherlock, it's pure art." Victor insisted with a little grin.
"Abstract art, if anything at all." Sherlock grumbled. "I'm not sure where you're coming from there, considering we've been natural born enemies for as long as I can remember. Nothing's going to change that, not even your crackpot theories."
"Just you wait, Sherlock. One of these days a veil will be lifted, and before your eyes..."
"Will be the same old barbarian I've always known. You said it yourself; perhaps he has proven he does have some humanity left in him. Perhaps he's got a heart, but it's black. But then again, that's better than no heart at all." Sherlock pointed out.
"And soon it will realize, after all of these years, that he wanted to caress your face instead of beat it." Victor sighed excitedly.
"I'll let you know if that day ever comes." Sherlock promised, though in all reality he was hiding his grin behind a very dedicated show of resistance. This show of detective work was almost humorous, considering Victor may be right on every count. The irony in it all was he didn't know he was right, even if he went on spewing his ideas repeatedly. He spoke all of this entirely theoretically, never once realizing that his predictions had come true long ago.
"Maybe I'll ask him this afternoon, when we're all stuck in the same room for an hour." Victor suggested.
"You'll do no such thing! Don't you dare embarrass me in front of John! He's smack us both for such accusations." Sherlock protested, wheeling around on his heel so as to stab an accusing finger in Victor's direction. The boy raised his hands in defense, though there was still that smug little smile on his face that made no promises in either direction.
"Perhaps he's been thinking it this whole time. What a dramatic, romantic twist." Victor sighed.
"Speaking of romantic twists, if I see you make those faces at my brother ever again I'll need to gouge my eyes out." Sherlock warned, narrowing his eyes to produce a fair warning.
"Not my fault he's so flirtatious. God, everything he says to me is just, well it's just poetic. It's beautiful." Victor sighed, shuffling his feet down the hallway in his silent agony.
"Victor!" Sherlock snarled. "I don't want to hear anything like that ever again."
"Get used to it. I'm properly in love, and when he finally makes his first move we'll be married and together for the rest..."
"If you're in my life for the remainder of it, well then it better be an awfully short life." Sherlock snarled.
"Can you imagine it Sherlock, Christmas dinners? Me and Mycroft, you and John, all sitting with your parents around a delicious ham! It will be like a fairy tale." Victor exclaimed, his voice rising to that annoyingly high octave when he talked about the best case scenarios.
"Are you really including John so quickly? Are you sure the carving knife won't be impaled in your chest by the time the meal is over?" Sherlock pointed out.
"I hate the boy as much as you do, Sherlock. But something tells me, oh just that little suspicion. Something tells me he's changed." Victor decided dreamily.
"I can't wait to prove you wrong." Sherlock huffed, and continued the way down to detention in silence. Since their drama production was entirely student run there was no need to explain their absence to any director, though Sherlock still felt guilty as he took a left down towards the classrooms instead of a right towards the auditorium. He knew that right now Jeanette was getting the stage set for their last couple of scenes, those which needed to be perfected before they could ever go on stage. The play was coming to a close, in fact there was but two weeks until their opening night, though Sherlock had a good feeling about the entire production. Somehow each of their pieces had come together, the sets were designed, the costumes selected, Victor had perfected his swordplay and even Sherlock was suffering through kiss after kiss with his leading lady. It was an embarrassing truth, though his newfound experience with John was certainly making Romeo seem much more romantic than before. If he closed his eyes and imagined a more familiar partner, well certainly the theater award would be his for another year! The more he considered the situation the more ironic it became, considering he was staring as Romeo both on stage and perhaps in real life. They did have a similar situation, with their constructed world and their theatrical instructions. In both cases they seemed to be acting around on someone else's script, whether that writer be William Shakespeare himself or a poor representation. The only relief that Sherlock found within their detention situation was the satisfying idea of a perfectly fair trade. Both sides served equal time, no matter if they were the predators or the prey, and what was handed to the poor wounded party was likewise given to the aggressors. It was certainly satisfying for Sherlock to walk into that dingy old math classroom and see two bent, inconvenienced figures sitting in the back of the classroom. There was one teacher monitor, one of the substitute teachers who was probably happy for a little overtime pay. Already the man was lounged back in an office chair, his feet propped up on someone else's desk with a thick novel between his hands.
"Trevor and Holmes?" the teacher presumed, staring at the two behind a pair of thick reading glasses.
"I appreciate the fact that you would assume someone else would be walking into detention." Sherlock sighed, settling himself in one of the middle seats and setting his backpack down next to him. He gave no greeting to the footballers who sat behind him, though the two of them seemed perfectly hostile. Certainly they were not going to want to hold any sort of conversation, even a hello might force more than words up from their mouths. Victor sank into the chair next to Sherlock, already arranging his homework on the desk in front of him with the firm intention of ignoring the room entirely. Sherlock knew that Victor had a big chemistry test coming up, and as he had expected there were a bunch of strange chemical reactions written out on his notebook, a science that Sherlock had perfected long ago.
"Do you need any help with that?" Sherlock offered quietly, finding there was nothing better with which to entertain himself with.
"I think I've got it. I mean, aside from the redox reactions everything is sort of self-explanatory." Victor mumbled, taping his mechanical pencil against his binder in some annoyance.
"Redox reactions aren't bad." Sherlock assured.
"Spoken like a true science prodigy. Unlike some, Sherlock, I wasn't born with two brains shoved into one skull." Victor grumbled.
"Whatever, whatever. I'll just sit back, read a book, and ignore you." Sherlock decided at last.
"Surely that's too much to ask." Victor chuckled, to which Sherlock gave a sneer in agreement. The teacher gave them a quick shush, trying to discourage any true social interaction. Sherlock obeyed, having already finished his conversation, and instead turned his head back towards where the footballers were huddled. Mike Stamford was staring blankly at his desk, his large eyes perfectly motionless and naive, as if he was asleep now with his eyes open. John was struggling over some homework of his own, though he seemed to have expected a glance sooner or later. Thankfully he was quick enough to catch Sherlock's eyes, and very carefully he gave a quick smile of welcome. Sherlock blushed, not yet used to getting such a radiant grin within the school walls. He returned a smile, a quick little grin that he almost couldn't retain. It was as if John's smile sparked a chemical reaction inside of himself, bubbling up so many positive feelings that his joy came rushing out in any way imaginable. A smile was a side effect, and it took all of his self-control not to jump to his feet and sing his praises of the boy in the back of the classroom. Finally Sherlock made himself look away, realizing that his gaze was lingering for too long, though when he at last settled into his seat he had to hide his face behind his hands, knowing that Victor would notice his blush first thing. Detention was quiet, deathly so, and it would remain this way for the first two days of their successive week. For two days all of their homework was completed, with minimal talking even between the sympathizers. The monitor became less and less attentive (until at last Sherlock swore he had fallen asleep), and on the third day finally the silence became too strong to bear. They would have two more days of this hour long misery if they didn't find something better to do than daydream, and before long Sherlock found himself nodding off with his chin propped up on his fists, miserable and angry at this tremendous waste of time. For three days he could have been working with his drama production, getting everything wrapped up and prepared for the final show! But three days came and went, and instead he was analyzing every corner of his brain for something remotely interesting to think about, now that he was trapped with his thoughts alone. At long last, somewhere around the half hour mark of Wednesday's detention, Sherlock felt something hit the back of his head. It was an ironic continuation of events, considering it was throwing grapes that got them into this situation in the first place. This time Sherlock felt some sort of cap eraser get lobbed into his curls, though when he turned around angrily he saw that John was not preparing to toss anything else. Instead, the boy was waving around a pack of cards anxiously, as if the eraser had been thrown simply as a silent way to get his attention. Sherlock took a quick glance at the teacher, worried the man would punish them for trying to entertain themselves for the duration of their detention. To his surprise, however, the monitor was fast asleep. The novel was already slipping from the old man's fingers, and instead of staying attentive he was dreaming through his own boredom. A golden opportunity then, to break rules while already in detention. Sherlock nudged Victor, awakening the boy from his chemistry textbook. It was no surprise that he had been reading the same page over and over again for the entirety of the detention, considering the text was so heavy and incomprehensible that one could hardly get through it would a dictionary and science teacher at their disposal.
"What?" Victor muttered, keeping his voice low so as not to wake their monitor.
"Crazy eights?" John whispered from the back. "It's a relatively quiet game, so long as we keep our tempers under control."
"Unlikely." Mike grumbled, his eyes flashing from Sherlock to Victor as if trying to decide who he disliked the most. Upon making eye contact with that brute Sherlock's face began to sting, as if his nerves were remembering their encounter with Mike Stamford's fist. He hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea to entertain these boys even if to satisfy his own boredom. Any card game was enough to set fire even within a pacifist; surely they would end the game with each other's necks in their hands, ready to snap at a moment's notice. Then again, a homicide would be more exciting than trying to count the pencil marks dug into the plastic desk in front of him. Sherlock gave a nod, very carefully getting to his feet and yanking on Victor's arm to pull him over as well. The boy gave a whine of protest, though once Sherlock's mind was set there really was nothing he could do to stop him. Eventually Victor got to his feet, slinking behind Sherlock as if to hide in the safety of his shadow. If he had never fallen into this strange world Sherlock would have stayed put. Without his newfound trust in John he would have certainly taken this as some sort of threat, expecting to get whipped around the head with a thick pack of cards or impaled with projectile poker chips. If he had never seen the softer side of John Watson he might never have believed the boy was capable of a mutually beneficial game of cards. This only furthered his presumption that these events weren't any sort of curse, rather a gift applied to all in the perimeter of the past enemies. The two boys sank into chairs opposite of the footballers, adjusting them so that they could sit facing the two desks which would be used for their playing field. As John shuffled the cards Sherlock watched his fingers in a transfixed sort of way, wondering just how much practice it might've taken to be such a superb shuffler.
"Lots of solitaire in my childhood." John explained upon seeing Sherlock's fixation.
"How depressing." Sherlock muttered, feeling the need to keep their conversation at a hostile minimum, just in case Victor was prepared to take notes on each of their interactions. That boy was onto something, and while Sherlock couldn't think of any true reason to be keeping secrets, well it would probably be best that Victor be left in the dark for now. He could theorize all he wanted, so long as he was under the impression that these ideas were just made up inside of his head, without any reality behind them. John dealt the cards to each of the players, the four looking across the table with their eyes slanted suspiciously, all expecting a stroke of violence to break out at a moment's notice. Sherlock wasn't worried about John, which was an odd change of events for any of his past years of life. It was instead Mike Stamford that worried him, especially since he and Victor seemed to be quite like flint and steel. When rubbed the wrong way, surely sparks would begin to fly. After the rules of the game were explained the four began to play, keeping their cards quiet and their small reactions limited to grunts or heavy breaths of disappointment. One at a time they set their cards upon the deck, setting the next players up for either success or defeat. They were dealing with wins, losses, collusions, and heavy betrayal, though each boy kept his temper under control. Shockingly this game pitted everyone against each other; there was no sympathizing between extracurricular interests. Mike had equal potential to mess up Victor's winning play as he would for John, and likewise each boy got mad at anyone who dealt them a bad card to play off of. In a way the game had the opportunity to make them into singular beings, not parts of conflicting groups, and before long their sympathies lay with whoever was plying more favorably to themselves, rather than who was going to be heading to the same place after this detention was over. They kept a watch on the monitor, knowing there would be consequences if he ever woke and found them to be entertaining themselves beyond the means of academia, though Sherlock figured they were leaning something even more important than chemistry at the moment. They were cooperating, whether they would like it or not. This was a sample size, a test group if you will, in which four of the most aggressive members of the conflicting parties were trapped within the same room. Who would've known it could end in something other than violence? Sherlock was amazed to see Mike Stamford smile; in fact it may have been the only legitimate emotion he had ever seen upon that brute's face. Surely he had other facial expressions, all in relevance to his positioning in the game; though there was actual joy expressed when he won. It was a marvel, better yet when Victor's victory didn't end with him getting toppled out of his chair. As the week progressed, and as their detention finally came to a close, the four boys had become crazy eights masters, and more importantly they became like true peers. It was a strange feeling, walking out of detention for the last day all in one group, not separated into their respective pairs. And Sherlock walked side by side, all while Mike and Victor bickered amongst themselves at who could win at Uno, promising a challenge once they got landed in detention once again. From what Sherlock could hear there was no physical violence associated with their argument, only the same sort of trash talk that would be thrown around between friends. Perhaps something had changed between the lot of them, now after having spent at least five hours with nothing better to do than communicate. Perhaps a bond had been made, much less than any true friendship, but a step above what used to be instant kill mode. Perhaps it was a truce, at least as long as their sympathies could hold out. So long as no one did anything stupid and relit the flame, well Sherlock had confidence that their aggression might really have faded away into the past. Just in time, too, for their ultimate parting of ways. Goodbyes were exchanged as the theater boys went in the direction of their auditorium and the jocks went along towards the locker rooms, each getting ready to make their final excuses and apologies for their tardiness. It was a relief, just to have made it through that week of detentions all in one piece.