The bleachers were very busy, though somehow Victor managed to arrange enough space in between the Holmes brothers to get himself positioned comfortably. Sherlock was able to catch a glimpse at Mycroft, trying to find if there really was any legitimacy behind Victor's strange claims of romance. Well Mycroft certainly looked uncomfortable, though Sherlock couldn't tell whether or not that blush in his cheeks was from flustered excitement or pain from getting his toes stepped on.
"Victor honey, you did fantastic! We just love listening to you and your band." Mrs. Holmes offered immediately, leaning over Sherlock so as to better get a look at her nearly adopted son. Victor gave a great smile in agreement, hitting his feet against the bleachers to show his enthusiasm.
"Well thank you! I was a little worried about that middle transition; some of the freshmen were tripping over their feet even during this morning's rehearsal! But we got it down very well." Victor said with a nod.
"I especially liked your version of Back in Black." Mr. Holmes agreed, perhaps the only song he could pick out from the group of more modern hits.
"That's the director's pick; he makes us play it every year." Victor muttered, as if he didn't necessarily match Mr. Holmes's enthusiasm for the song.
"You all should take up actual music. Armed with instruments but trying to mimic synthesizers and auto tune, it's distasteful." Mycroft grumbled. Victor turned towards him with a little frown, though Sherlock recognized the very telltale signs of flattery. His cheeks were a bit red, due to the distance or perhaps the inquiry, but certainly any words from Mycroft's mouth proved to be a compliment.
"We're a marching band, Mycroft. It's hard to play anything you enjoy in such a setting. You need violins, and harps, and all sorts of things that aren't meant for a field." Victor insisted.
"That's why no one likes the marching band." Mycroft huffed.
"No, that's why you don't like the marching band." Victor snapped in return. Mycroft nodded, as if he was in no position to deny that, and wiggled his shoulders in adjustment. He liked to be taller than anyone else, though with Victor's hat it was hard for him to get into a position of superiority. Therefore he gave a dissatisfied huff, finally turning his attention away.
"I like the marching band, Victor." Mrs. Holmes offered.
"Thank you." Victor said with a little nod.
"Just you wait until concert band gets started in the winter, then we'll have some real music. Music to satisfy even Mycroft." Sherlock pointed out. Concert band was his main event once the theater was over, being he was the first chair violin in the school and in the county. The music was usually classical when the concert band took over, much easier going and romantic when compared to the AC/DC covers the marching band attempted.
"I can't wait to get out of this stinky uniform and back into a nice button down shirt. The stage lights are always much more relaxing than the stadium." Victor agreed with a longing sigh.
"Not to mention we're the main event, not the underwhelming side show." Sherlock added quickly.
"Those miserable footballers. We were practicing our marching and they almost nailed us with a football an hour before the game. Poor little Henry Knight had to duck, getting his drums all in the mud." Victor groaned, huddling into a little ball as he pulled his arms around his chest protectively.
"Do you know who threw it?" Sherlock asked.
"No, but I imagine it was intentional. I know they aim for the freshmen." Victor sighed.
"Bet it was John." Mycroft added in, the only evidence that he had been attentive throughout the whole of their side conversation. This time it was Sherlock's turn to blush, though he tried not to make it noticeable. He gave a scowl, though kept his mouth shut. Thankfully Victor had a mouthful of insults to throw, and was able to keep the conversation going without a direct input from Sherlock.
"He seems like the type. That boy has had a vendetta against the school's artistic minds since he first learned there was a different talent other than hitting heads off of each other." Victor grumbled.
"Remember when he smeared that black paint brush all over your art project in third grade?" Sherlock remembered with a chuckle, thinking back to Victor's crocodile tears.
"He ruined a masterpiece, just because his looked like a strange color of moss and dirt when it was intended to be a sunrise. I still remember that day, that smug look on his face." Victor growled.
"And then his own tears when he was sent to the principal's office." Sherlock inputted.
"That was the only part that made it worth it. I heard he was the first in our grade to get detention." Victor chuckled.
"Detention doesn't actually exist. No staff member is willing to watch over the unruly kids after hours." Mycroft protested.
"And how do you know that? Just because you were a good kid doesn't mean there's no place for those who aren't." Sherlock insisted. "I think I remember Phillip Anderson getting detention for eating an eraser in middle school."
"He wasn't given detention; he was taken to the hospital." Victor protested.
"That's just a rumor." Sherlock insisted.
"There was an ambulance and everything!"
"Fake news." Sherlock sighed.
"What ever happened to Phillip? Wasn't he the boy famed for the sloppy joe record at lunch?" Mycroft wondered.
"I saw him do it...seven of them!" Victor agreed excitedly.
"I'm sure he got taken to the hospital after that one too." Sherlock mumbled. Victor chuckled, giving another quick glance to Mycroft as if to make sure the boy was still interested in his very close bleacher neighbor. If Sherlock wasn't mistaken the two had their legs completely up against each other, perhaps using the excuse of lack of space. Though Sherlock wasn't touching Victor's leg at all, in fact there was room for him to slide in the other direction if he wished. Perhaps it was both of the boys' intentions to be close together, a thought that made Sherlock's stomach begin to writhe. Oh the idea of it all, the promise of a marriage that would force Victor to be in his life forever more! Agony! Thankfully the arrival of the football teams brought their conversation to a close, their voices crowded out by the enthusiastic screeching of the fans on either side of the Holmes family.
"I should go, sounds like we'll be needed soon." Victor said quickly, getting to his feet and turning rather hesitantly to his onlookers. "Thanks for letting me sit with you guys." He muttered, looking a little awkward now as he was faced with the eyes of each member of the family.
"Any time, Victor dear." Mrs. Holmes assured.
"I'll see you afterwards. Now scurry along, before they have to start without their best member." Sherlock insisted, to which Victor glowed red in excitement, rushing away as if to prove he really was the best in the group. Sherlock sighed, finding it entertaining to flatter the boy, though it was all the better now that he was given a bit more space to breathe. Anyone who was around Victor just had to love him, but along with that came a fine print which necessitated loving him only in small, distant doses. Spending too much time around that bubbling personality was enough to make anyone's brain blow. The football game commenced as anyone might have expected after seeing the first half. It was a rather good game, though even Sherlock was able to predict the final result. The home team was much more organized, much more skillful, and from the sound of it much more motivated than their opponent. Sherlock could hear a loud voice screaming from the field when the crowds grew silent, the shrill instructions of the captain as he positioned himself in the starting lineup. It was a voice Sherlock wished he didn't recognize so well, a voice he wished he hadn't heard say such bold statements more recently in their long history. John's lips, the same which had once been pressed against his own, now screaming out demands to his team as if he had never lived through such strange events. It made Sherlock cringe; remembering the time he had spent with that footballer, though there was a noticeable absence of anger which swelled within his heart. In the past he had looked at John Watson as nothing more than a demon, though now he could at least appreciate that there was another side of him, perhaps one that was more tame and misunderstood. That boy was filled with secrets, some that Sherlock might not have been able to imagine only months ago. Perhaps he was just going about his life as his peers demanded; perhaps he had a soft heart once you were able to look past his rough exterior and ever present aggression. But was that this witch talking, were these thoughts even his own? Perhaps John did have a soft side when he was scripted to display it! Who knows what had been real and what had been falsified, all in an attempt to make some third party's sick dreams become reality? Sherlock gave a shudder, not even able to trust his own brain anymore! Who knows what he felt for John Watson, if that really was John Watson at all! The game which had begun so closely now turned into a landslide, and while the home team was able to get three more touchdowns in during the second half their poor opponents were slipping farther and farther out of range. When the final buzzer had gone off a great many fans had already left the stadium, those who were trying to avoid the traffic and who had already determined the end result of the game. The opposing bleachers were nearly empty, and here on the home side it seemed to be only the true fans, as well as the parents of the players, who remained. Even the Holmes family bench was almost cleared, allowing for Mycroft to slide down the aluminum and leave more space for Sherlock to enjoy. Of course it was not out of the goodness of Mycroft's heart that he continued to make room, Sherlock noticed every time that he slid he gave a passing glance towards the marching band, the group now taking up a peppy version of a Katy Perry song while the football team rejoiced on the field. The game had been won, though Sherlock felt as though the night was not over yet.
"Can we wait for Victor, and walk home with him?" Sherlock suggested as he noticed his parents begin to shuffle to their feet, collecting the blankets and the seat cushions within their arms to foretell their eventual exit. For a moment Mrs. Holmes pondered this, as if she was disappointed to hear that her boys would prefer the company of their friend to her own on the rather long walk home.
"He'll probably get jumped if we don't help him out. You know how those boys can be once they've won their game, and everyone with just a little bit of confidence would certainly go for Victor." Sherlock pointed out, so as to further his argument.
"Victor is very punchable." Mycroft agreed. Mrs. Holmes nodded her head quietly, giving a glance towards the band where Victor was now very visible, as he had taken to standing on the bleachers and rocking his saxophone back and forth as if it was a child.
"Well, alright." She agreed at last. "But no lingering! I want you boys home no later than eleven." Mrs. Holmes decided.
"Mycroft, you can text us when you're leaving." Mr. Holmes added in, bundling up the family's blankets in his arms for the long trek home.
"Alright." Mycroft grumbled; though his disinterest appeared to be very falsified, a mask he had put on to hide his enthusiasm. Well of course he would be looking for any excuse to spend time with Victor, and a nice walk home in the evening would be the perfect opportunity! Sherlock hated noticing these things; oh it was so much better when he was perfectly oblivious to these strange romantic escapades! The Holmes parents shuffled off after saying abbreviated goodbyes (the announcer had gotten back on the loud speaker, making most conversation completely pointless) and before long Sherlock found himself sitting with his brother on a nearly empty section of bleachers. The student section had long since faded away, presumably to go terrorize the gas stations or vandalize the local park. Who knows what kids these days got up to? Speaking as a kid of the day himself, Sherlock was hopeless to imagine what life would be like if he was cool. But I suppose sitting with your brother was cool, if of course you used a very narrow definition of the word. The stadium fell quiet, and Sherlock looked over to Mycroft with a little bit of a frown. The man was sitting with his feet propped on the bleacher seat in front of him, curling his long legs and settling his arms upon his closest knee. His eyes were down upon the field though they were glossed, and what remained of his dark glaze seemed to be fixated on the inside of his head, as if life was much more entertaining in there.
"When do you think you'll get your first gray hair?" Sherlock wondered at last, having taken to studying the perfected hairline that ran through his brother's short styled hair. Mycroft snarled, patting along his scalp almost defensively, as if he already had something to hide.
"Sherlock I'm only twenty five!" he defended with a frown.
"Going on fifty." Sherlock reminded him. "In spirit you're older than our parents."
"That's terribly rude." Mycroft mumbled. Sherlock smirked, though at last he fell silent. Through the bleachers he could hear a very muffled voice, as if the football coach was yelling from the locker rooms below. Certainly the boys were getting congratulated, that or their coach was unappreciative of their efforts today. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he was yelled at by a drama instructor, for they never seemed to find criticism enough to raise their voice. How nice it was, to be a protégé. The band was finally beginning to pack up their instruments; each one of the members having abandoned their songs instead for loud conversations, and from here Sherlock could hear Victor's voice over everyone else. He was speaking about his weekend homework plans, gabbing about as if anyone actually cared, and before long he had his saxophone stored away in its long case and was adjusting his hat for his departure. It seemed to be perfectly timed for all of them when Sherlock suddenly got to his feet, making it seem as if he was going to retrieve Victor or perhaps give the two boys their alone time. It only so happened that he didn't intend to be on his feet, and when he was raised he had no intentions of leaving his seat. The first words that went through his head, and now even through his mouth...
"Oh no." Sherlock whispered, recognizing the signs of another possession.
"What's the matter?" Mycroft mumbled, not seeming too concerned. In fact he hardly seemed to notice his brother, not now that there were more interesting things to focus on.
"I um...well I'm starting to walk down." Sherlock explained, noticing his leg movements as they began to tread down the clanging metal stairs.
"I see that." Mycroft agreed. "Any particular place you're going?"
"Bathroom." Sherlock said quickly, the only reasonable excuse he could think of. Certainly Mycroft couldn't refuse that, though it seemed as though he was willing to try.
"We're leaving in like five minutes! Can't you hold it until we get home?" Mycroft whined.
"I'll only be a minute!" Sherlock assured, already calling over his shoulder now that he had made it nearly to the end of the bleachers. He couldn't stop himself to make a better explanation, nor could he control the fact that he was certainly on track to head into the locker rooms, and therefore the serious football meeting that their coach was conducting. Though as much as he tried Sherlock could not control himself, when he tried to clutch to the railings of the steps his fingers would not clench, and instead of steadying himself he rather touched his fingers along the metal and slid them rather painfully down. Sherlock's only hope was that John would be there to receive him, perhaps having been charmed with the same unfortunate incantation. Oh what would their reaction be, certainly their witch didn't imagine that the locker room would be occupied? Unless it was planned to be a secretive organization Sherlock may very well walk into that locker room and take John into his arms, neither boy able to stop it and protect not only their reputation but their honor as well. Certainly all eyes would turn the moment that door opened! Sherlock clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut as his legs began to lead him out onto the pavement, taking a sharp turn to head straight down the short hallway towards the locker rooms. Thankfully the bathrooms were also down this hallway, so as to make it look like he was pursing his excuse, though his feet dragged him straight past the restrooms and towards the door at the end of the hall, the one marked Locker Room in black, peeling letters. His footsteps echoed off of the cement, this being the primary building material for the floor, walls, and ceilings. It was a cheap design, weathered with years of use into something much more personal. Nevertheless, Sherlock felt like an outsider, he knew he had no business to wander this far down into the halls. Someone would catch him, oh the moment he opened the door he would be discovered! What would they do, the coaches or the players? Well if there was a coach involved he could get thrown out, simple as that. But if there wasn't a coach, if he was left to the mercy of those heathens, well who knows what could happen? There were stark possibilities, all depending on the company he was faced with when he arrived. All Sherlock could hope for was that John had somehow managed to bypass the curse, managing to handle the situation logically rather than romantically. Like it or not, John Watson was his only hope of surviving this encounter. John was the only one who understood the situation and could react to it, though if he was put under the same spell then both boys were on the trajectory for complete disaster. What would happen if they united in the middle of the locker rooms, throwing the backpacks off of a wooden bench and taking up the space with their bodies instead? What happened if...no, no worse case scenarios. Sherlock tried to think positively, though even as his hand reached for the door handle he knew he was approaching disaster. It took all his strength to hesitate for a mere second, before at last his will was lessened by the power of another, and without any intention at all he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Thankfully he was not met with yelling, it would seem from the atmosphere that the coaches were long gone. Though as Sherlock assessed the situation a little bit closer he realized that interrupting a meeting might have been preferable than this...interrupting what could only be showering time. The locker room was filled with steam, his feet slipping on the cheap tile and the humidity sticking to his skin in an unwanted film. He seemed to have stepped into the meeting area, for he stood for a moment within a large circle of metal folding chairs, all turned to face a chalk board which was marked up with illegible squiggles and dots, perhaps highlighting some football trigonometry or other sort of strange strategizing. On either side of him were lockers, though it seemed as though there were rows of them, mimicking their gym locker rooms and allowing for a little bit of privacy between the rows. Certainly that was where he would find the most cover, and even now his feet were beginning to trek towards the right most set. From one of the back corners came the sound of a radio, as if the boys had turned on their favorite station, and conversation was echoing off of the walls. The showers were not visible from where Sherlock stood (thankfully) and so he assumed that they didn't know he was here just yet. The radio would mask his footsteps, and so for now he was safe to proceed. Sherlock felt quite like a deer who had wandered into the lion enclosure, unable to get out and threatened the moment he was noticed. For now he was just prancing along in the shrubbery, but sooner or later one of his predators would spot him, an outsider, a perfect target. Who knows what they would do to him when they found him trespassing? Oh the rumors that would go around, the speculation! How could he ever survive the torment of being a stalker, watching the footballers as they were showering? If he couldn't get out of this room he would rather secure a blindfold over his eyes, so as to allow that suspicion to die down rather quickly. He could perhaps get away with making the excuse that he thought this was a bathroom, having been dared to find his way by Victor. Oh but if he had any self-control at all, enough to manage a blindfolding guise, then he certainly should just turn and run! He was in danger of more than just physical abuse within this locker room; he was in danger of lawsuits, criminal allegations! He'd never hear the end of it! Oh please, please let John realize that their peaceful Friday evening was in danger! Sherlock found himself now safely tucked between two rows of lockers, though from the looks of things it seemed that he wasn't going to stay unnoticed for very long. The tall lockers were stuffed full of bags, clothes, and towels, evidence of their usefulness to the boys who were still preoccupied in the adjoining room. Certainly they would be making their way back soon! Sherlock began to sweat, his brow dripping and his heart pumping, now wondering what he could say, if anything at all, that could get him out of this situation. He was terribly afraid, realizing now that he wasn't in control of anything that was about to happen. The only hope that could be found came from the masking tape stuck along the brim of the lockers, tape which was scrawled on with a permanent marker reading each boy's last name. By the looks of it, Sherlock had settled himself directly in front of John Watson's locker. This means that if his hero was going to save him he wouldn't have far to go, and there was a slight chance, just a slight one, that he might the first one back. If John was able to beat his teammates back to the benches then he would have a reaction time enough to hide Sherlock, though how he would do that remained a mystery. This all depended on John's clear thinking, for if he was fallen under the same spell then they were certainly done for. Sherlock found himself sitting upon the wooden bench, his knees pressed together and his hands folded upon his lap. He was staring at the locker of John Watson, trying to get any insight as to what was inside through the small vents which allowed a glimpse from a sitting position. From what he could see there might have been a shirt hanging inside, perhaps a backpack, though it was quite dark and almost impossible to determine specifics. For a while Sherlock was able to understand just how strange his life had gotten, not only was he sitting in the football locker room but he was waiting on John Watson, the very boy he would have most liked to avoid only a month earlier! How far they had come since this spell began, from smacking each other with pointer sticks to perhaps saving the other's life from their violent friends. Who knows what was next, and if there was any possibility of another step! Would they become friends after all of this settled down? Or would it go back to the way it used to be, even after they had glimpses into the other's life? Sherlock didn't want to admit it, though his blind hatred for John was fading quickly, so fast that he wasn't sure he held any resentment any longer. With his bruise healed and all of his old wounds long since scarred it seemed as though he had nothing to complain about, no grievance on the behalf of John Watson that could qualify as a longstanding grudge. Perhaps their slate could be wiped clean with a couple more days of this forceful interaction, depending of course if Sherlock was going to be alive for that span of time. It all depended on what happened tonight, whether or not he fell into the clutches of some of the more lethal football players. At long last the radio's volume died down, now being replaced with unmistakable approaching conversation. Sherlock's stomach seemed to flop, his head growing dizzy as he tried to place who was speaking and where they were heading. Some of the showers were still going, though the sound of water had decreased tremendously. The first wave of boys was approaching, getting ready to approach their unexpected visitor. Sherlock shut his eyes tight; not only to avoid his punishment but also to avoid whatever was rounding the corner to face him. He could only hope that these boys were wearing towels, otherwise this could turn from a bad experience to a scarring memory, one that would haunt him in his dreams forever more. Sherlock ducked his head into his hands, trembling as the footsteps padded closer... But then his saving grace, oh what could only be that familiar voice approaching! It sounded like John, yes it had to be! There was his voice, so beautiful, so thankful...so unintelligent.
"...locked him in a gorilla cage, I swear no one could tell the difference." Was the only snippet Sherlock could make out, but it was all he needed. His heart lightened, and while he never opened his eyes he felt as though he had a chance to get out of this. Oh he began to pray, pray to a God that his mother believed in, pray that John was observant enough and quick enough to think of a plan!