As the silence wore on John became a bit more uncomfortable, feeling as though he was sat next to Sherlock Holmes to take advantage of the conversational opportunities and not to stare at the same pine tree across the way. For a while he kept his eyes on the passerby, those who were either running or walking around the paved trail which lay in front of them about one hundred meters. It was far enough away to assure that they would not be overheard, though John was growing continually wary. What if they had the rotten luck of summoning one of their friends by the familiar sounds of their voice? Or worse yet, what if someone had been listening this whole time?
"What do you think this is, John?" Sherlock asked at last, leaning over onto his knees and bending his neck so as to look at John more definitively. "Is it a curse, witchcraft, or some miserable coincidence of voluntary paralysis and hypnotic suggestion?"
"How would I know? How do you expect anyone to know anything at this stage? I don't think there's any such thing as magic, but I couldn't produce a more convincing explanation." John admitted. Sherlock thought for a moment, his brow creasing and his eyes squinting in much deeper thought.
"If it is a witch, well then there must be some sort of enchanting process going on. Someone who wants us to be together, and is obviously doing their best to ensure it." he decided after a moment.
"You're suggesting this is a large conspiracy, spearheaded by a strange sort of conjurer?" John presumed.
"Well yes, think about it. Obviously it's centered on us, that means that it's got to be someone we know. Someone who thinks we have chemistry, and has decided to make it a reality." Sherlock insisted.
"And is also a witch." John added quickly.
"Presumably, but I'm sure either gender could manage some spell work." Sherlock shrugged.
"Alright, so someone we know that is either male or female." John muttered. "Well that sure helps a lot."
"Someone who thinks we have chemistry, so who knows us both enough to decided. Well, I'm sure none of your football players could figure that out on their own. I'm not sure they have brains enough to determine their face in the mirror." Sherlock decided after a quick little chuckle. John turned his face in some disappointment, though Sherlock didn't seem to be ashamed for what he had said. Obviously he assumed there was truth in the matter, or he might have offered up some apology.
"And your theater kids are presumably too afraid of me to even attempt the fact." John guessed.
"No, no." Sherlock murmured. "They like to make fun of you much more than any other kids in the school."
"That's good to hear." John grumbled, tapping his fingers along his knee and giving it some thought. Well of course his first guess would be Victor, for that boy always had some strong opinions to share, though he didn't seem the type to imagine chemistry between the two rivals. In fact it seemed as though he hated John enough to wish him the worst, probably more likely to conjure up a demon to torment him than call upon black magic to offer him a steamy love affair. Besides, Victor would never fall in line with the Devil, considering even Satan had standards. No one could tolerate that boy for long, not even with the promise of a soul.
"Jeanette, maybe?" Sherlock suggested. "She seems capable of witchcraft."
"It must be someone who was there when I hit you. I mean, perhaps the person has some weird fetish, thought it was pretty hot." John suggested. Sherlock shivered, giving John a rather disgusted smile but not vocally disagreeing. Perhaps he knew more of the theater kids than he wanted to know, and therefore decided it wasn't all together out of the question.
"If this was about fetishes then I'm sure things would have gotten much worse, much more quickly. No one would waste time with casual conversations if they were trying to get us...well, to do that." Sherlock shivered, shaking his head apprehensively before letting his gaze fall onto the ground once more. John's stomach twisted as well, though he dared not admit why. He didn't want Sherlock to think he was afraid of what might be the final outcome, lest there be some embarrassing assumptions that went along with such a presumption.
"Perhaps it's not a person at all." John suggested at last. "I mean, how much do we actually know about lore, about witchcraft?"
"Next to nothing, other than that there's large pointed hats involved." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"Perhaps this isn't even that, maybe it's...well maybe it's like you said. Hypnotic suggestion!"
"I'll let you know the next time someone swings a watch in front of my face, then the true culprit will be revealed." Sherlock chuckled.
"Is there a more scientific answer than that, Sherlock?" John demanded, wondering why the boy was suddenly playing the mystic card so heavily. Thinking logically about the whole ordeal, well there was hardly a reason to believe this had something to do with demons and witches and magic! Perhaps it could be a bad case of lead poisoning, or indigestion?
"There's one, dare I even consider it." Sherlock decided.
"And that is?" John wondered. Sherlock gave a reluctant little smile, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back onto the bench as casually as possible.
"You could be slipping me some sort of acid and doing a very good job at acting." Sherlock suggested. At that, John found himself completely speechless. 

The first football game of the season was definitely one of the most nerve wracking events of John's high school career. Coupled with that preliminary stress, the fact that it just so happened to be played at their home field was not helping his stress levels, and since John was now a senior and therefore certain to be the center of everyone's attention, well the pressure certainly seemed to be on. The competition was not fierce, or at least they had never been in the past. But who knows what might be waiting on the other side of that field, what sort of talent the rival school might have recruited? Freshmen could be rising into the starting mix, seniors could have worked extra hard over the summer to bulk up and master their sport. Perhaps this was the game that John met his final match, dueled against a team who had always been at the bottom of the league for years before? He sat on one of the locker room benches with his football helmet in hand, fiddling with the straps and staring blankly at the chalkboard his coach was presenting on. It was filled with x's and o's, all sorts of arrows and lines dotting around the field in a complicated pattern. Well John knew this game plan very well; in fact he was sure that everyone in their league was also perfectly familiar with it. This plan was the one they started most every game with, a predictable pattern that could be easily countered if it was ever recognized. Trustworthy, but faulty if the competition was smart enough. The fact that the plan was so familiar gave John's mind the ability to wander, thinking on more important things than this silly little game plan. Such as the bleachers, and who may be sitting above their heads this very moment. The crowd could be heard from the locker rooms, each of their separate conversations mulling into a low roar that made its way through the ceiling and became a familiar sort of background noise. It was the sound of Friday night football, something akin to the splashing of waves or the chirping of birds when trying to get a football player to relax. Somehow it helped John to remember each one of his fans, each single voice that sat up there in the stands, waiting to watch him preform, wishing to see him victorious. How could he disappoint those people, their silly little voices and their prideful tee-shirts? John continued his deep breathing, trying to get his heart rate to decrease, trying to get himself relaxed and ready to perform. Who might be sitting up there, besides the hordes of strangers? John knew better than to expect his family, considering his father worked nights every week and his mother would never leave the basement. Harriet was much too afraid of large crowds to show her face, and of course she would never show up to support her brother, lest anyone notice the connection. Who did that leave, for those who meant something to him? John considered for a moment, settling on one particular face he might wish to see in the crowds. One person who might give him all the motivation he needed to take this football game in his stride, and one person to be there when the final score was tallied. Yes, John could imagine it now...the crowd spilling out onto the field, and a particular set of arms open for him to fall into.
"Watson!" called his coach, summoning John off of the bench to join his mobilizing team.
"Yes, sorry Sir." John muttered.
"Better be daydreaming about victory." The coach warned, holding up his whistle as if to threaten. John gave a little smile, fitting his helmet onto his head and pounding his fist against his chest.
"Nothing but, sir." John agreed, and with that he pounded his cleats against the concrete and began the march, leading his team to the field, leading his team to what must result in victory. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock cowered down on his aluminum seat, trying to hide his face under the brim of a rather fashionable fedora. He didn't like the crowds here, all sweaty and enthusiastic with their multicolored pompoms and mustard coated hot dogs. Football fans were the worst breed, and even worse was the ever present student section. How ghastly they were, standing upon the seats in the designated square, shirtless and covered in paint! Each one of the girls who were not flexible enough to become cheerleaders, each boy who was not fit enough to sit on the benches down below! How terrible they were, the outcasts of the popular squad! God forbid they look over, and realize who was sitting within their spitting range...
"Sherlock darling, sit up! You look like a turtle that's lost his shell." Mrs. Holmes insisted, patting Sherlock on the back so as to make him straighten it.
"I'm not going to sit up; I don't want to be seen here." Sherlock protested. The student section was only on the other side of the aisle, the only thing protecting him from their gaze being his father, brother, and perhaps two or three other spectators who were sitting on some of the most outlying seats.
"I don't know why you won't let us sit with the band." Mycroft agreed, setting his chin upon his fist and glancing a bit jealously over towards the other side of the bleachers. The marching band was quite visible from the rest of the crowd, wearing their white woolen uniforms with red sashes, each one with a fancy hat and a shining instrument in hand. Sherlock had been pressured for many years to join, though the idea of totting around an instrument every Friday night to multiple hostile athletic locations always turned his stomach. He simply had no interest in supporting the football team. This was the only separation there had been between Sherlock and Victor, considering Victor was a dedicated saxophone player and also an easily manipulated fool. The first time their marching band director suggested he join, Victor put his name on the dotted line, and now he was basically trapped into his position in the band.
"You can sit with them in the second half, after they've done their little show. Until then, at least try to pretend to like us. We brought you here for quality time, not for moping." Mr. Holmes insisted, prodding each of his sons so as to make them look a bit more entertained. Well, Sherlock would never admit it to either of his parent's faces, but he had intended to go to this game whether or not they pulled him here against his will. From the moment it was announced he knew he would be perfectly obligated to attend, considering he had a strange and involuntary relationship with the star player. He would never acknowledge John during the duration, of course, nor would he ever admit to his being there, though he had intended to wait in the shadows, watching politely and cheering on his friend from afar. Friend, what a presumptuous word to use! Acquaintance was perhaps better. He would cheer on his acquaintance from afar. When the football players went rushing out Sherlock made sure to remember which name belonged to which number, counting in his head as the announcer listed the starting lineup over the loudspeakers. Well, part of this was a purely selfish investigation, considering Sherlock would like very much to know which one of his rotten adversaries was getting pummeled out in the mud. Greg Lestrade was number four, Mike Stamford number eleven, and ah! John Watson, number twenty two. Sherlock felt his face glow a bit red as he heard the name over the loudspeaker, worried for a moment that someone might be staring at him at the mention of the name. His parents, perhaps, knowing of their long historical feud. Sherlock didn't want anyone to associate him with the name, and so he tucked even lower into his fedora and hoped that he might blend in with the rest of the crowd.
"I hate it when they cheer for him, that bully." Mrs. Holmes muttered, though thankfully her gaze remained fixed on the shortest player on the field, that little John Watson as he went jumping and running about. Sherlock glowed even more red. The football game started off just as any other game would, with a lot of cheering, yelling, tackling, and running to be seen on the field. Sherlock watched each one of his least favorite players, smiling when Greg got trampled by a particularly large defensive player, giggling when Mike got tripped by a tiny little boy in a brown jersey who had made a fantastic dive towards his feet. Each yard the home team gained was another line in his frown, and each successful counter play by the supposed energy lightened his heart. He was here not to support his team, but to intentionally watch them lose. Nothing gave Sherlock more pleasure than watching the boys he despised get their tails handed to them by an outlying team of equally obnoxious boys. Tonight felt different in one aspect, considering he could stare down onto that field and almost envision John's face through his helmet. He didn't have eagle eyes; in fact he could hardly determine the shade of John's skin from under the shadow of his barred helmet. Though Sherlock knew what was behind it, he knew what was hiding under that intimidating outer layer. He could read the thoughts of that quarterback, he could sense his unrest. With each pump of John's heart on the field, Sherlock's mimicked, and before long the two of them began a strange sort of sympathy from across a stretch of two hundred meters. When John made runs Sherlock's fists clenched, almost wincing when the boy was taken down by boys twice his size. Each time he reemerged from the pile of bodies Sherlock could breathe easier, and each time he started back on the line Sherlock had to hold onto some hope. He felt that this game was different from all the rest he had attended, for while he was still cheering against his home team, well he was now beginning to root for John Watson, and John Watson alone. Both of the Holmes parents were avid football fans, supporting their home team despite their knowledge of John's more aggressive background. History of not, they still decided to cheer for the home team's touchdowns, regardless of which player carried the ball over the line. At halftime the score was in their favor, twenty four to seven, with a safe enough cushion for slight mistakes. The teams went trotting off the field, to be replaced soon with the marching band. Sherlock could see their hats poking out from behind the fence, the sparkles on their uniforms glistening in the artificial lights as they stood poised with their instruments, head strong and ready to bring some more artistic fun into this grotesque game of high school brutality. Victor was probably somewhere in the front, considering it was there that the tallest hat sat perched. He was one of the tallest in the school, let alone in the marching band, considering it was usually comprised of scared freshmen, all of which were too hesitant to turn down the music director's invitation.
"Which one is Victor?" asked Mrs. Holmes excitedly, clapping her hands together as the band began its march towards center field.
"Oh who knows? Probably got a saxophone." Sherlock grumbled. His mother gave a little pout, as if she didn't appreciate Sherlock's attitude, though she wasn't going to tell off her son in public. Instead she turned her head away, squinting her eyes behind her glasses so as to solve this mystery herself. The band lined up in their straight rows, aligned with the crowd with all of their shining instruments now held to their lips. The cheerleaders at last dismounted from their stunts, Mary Morstan's shining golden hair finally falling still onto her shoulders, and the flag twirlers in the back began to wave, calling their due attention. Perhaps the band's performance would have been a bit more interesting if Sherlock had not already seen it ten times already, though they tended to stick to the same routine for every home game. There were some changes assigned here and there, just to change it up from last year, though there seemed to be so much their music direction knew how to coordinate, and besides changing up lines and zigzagging across the field Sherlock saw nothing too spectacular. The songs were mostly band covers of popular radio hits, rather poorly transferred to a mostly brass section. The melody was catchy enough, though as much as Sherlock appreciated the band he found himself slipping out of concentration, his thoughts now wandering to who might be sitting below his feet at this very moment, through the cement and aluminum and inside of the locker room below. He was torn between admitting his presence and just pretending to never have been present. Not only was he afraid John would take it too personally (even though it was rather personal), Sherlock was worried that word might get around that he was attending sporting events. How embarrassing that would be, to get the reputation of an athletic supporter! It was tempting to disappear into the large crowd, though admitting his presence to at least one of the jocks might have its advantages. It wasn't like he was trying to impress John Watson, though he might as well try to get to know the other side of this school a little bit better. If he was going to be stuck on that boy's arm for the rest of his high school career, well they might as well start to appreciate the other a little bit better. Oh what was he thinking; certainly this wouldn't be left up to him after all! These magical forces, the ones which had proven to be so inconvenient, were probably already at work. The potion must be brewing, the sacrifice prepared! Certainly there was some sort of witch poised at her table, imagining the love story of two high school boys and forcing them to have a romantic night at the football game! Sherlock let his head sink lower, wondering who ever would spend such precious time on trying to get him and John together. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment to his personality or perhaps an insult to his intelligence, though one way or another someone in that wide world figured that he did have a soulmate, he was just too stupid to realize it for himself.
"Ooh, that's Victor in the front, isn't it?" Mrs. Holmes asked at last, once the band had stopped moving around and taken their final bow. Sherlock followed her finger (although he tried to remind her that it was rude to point ) and found that indeed Victor stood in the front row, that dazzling smile nearly blinding even from this distance. How enthusiastic he was about the spotlight, how he loved the be the center of everyone's attention.
"Yes, that's him." Sherlock agreed with a little mutter. At last the stadium quieted, the polite cheering dying down as each of the spectators settled with their snack stand treasure, crunching on cheap corn chips or slurping their diet Cokes, all ready for the grand reentry of the main event. The marching band strutted away, their steps in line and their heads raised high, though just as soon as the exited the field the announcer got on, hyping up the crowd with facts about the players and about the season ahead. Sherlock heard John's name repeated over and over again, as he was the star player and the boy on everyone's mind tonight. His senior year, his moment of glory, all centered around his final college decision! How people could care so much about a boy's football career remained a mystery! And it made Sherlock wonder how the impression of this saintly athlete would be changed, should everyone know the abuse he had offered his fellow students throughout the whole of his school career. As the marching band returned they were allowed a brief intermission, permitted to get a snack or take a bathroom trip throughout the rest of the half time break. It was no surprise that Victor was coming waddling up the stairs, having found not his real family (as they never seemed to show up) but instead his adopted family from across the street. He stood out like a ridiculous thumb in his bright woolen uniform, that feather dancing atop his tall hat and the strap nearly choking him to death from underneath his chin. Thankfully Victor had the mind to leave his saxophone behind, though even without it he seemed to take up more space than there was available.