Sherlock POV: Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes boring into his opponent's gaze as he brandished his weapon firmly. Moving his feet this way and that, as per the skills he had learn from a brief lesson in fencing as a child, he took a step forward, jabbing the end of the broomstick towards Victor's stomach and successfully feeling an impact. The boy yelped, falling to the ground and allowing his pointer stick to slip from his hand and roll across the wooden stage.
"O, I am slain!" he cried out, trembling on the ground and clutching onto his supposed wound, "If thou be merciful..." his voice faltered, and for a moment his eyes lost the falsified pain and were replaced instead with confusion.
"Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet!" Sherlock finished in disappointment, dropping his broomstick to the ground in some disappointment and looking over towards their small audience of collected thespians. Each one was sitting crisscrossed on the stage, watching as their Romeo and Paris practiced the rather dramatic art of swordplay.
"Yes, that's it." Victor agreed with a little mutter, sitting up once again and messaging his impact wound. "You have to be more gentle when you hit me, I've got bruises all over." he added quietly, looking up at Sherlock entreatingly.
"If you could remember your lines we wouldn't have to practice so much! At this point I could play both Romeo and Paris, side by side with a mirror!" Sherlock complained, stepping over their weapons so as to give his counterpart a hand. Victor accepted graciously, and before long was flung onto his feet and back to his prideful stature.
"I'm doing my best." Victor assured.
"I know you are." Sherlock muttered, allowing his hard gaze to soften. There was no use in bullying his theater troupe to perfection, in the end they always came through. How else would their drama department be so successful, if not for the tireless hours of practice put in by each and every cast member?
"Let's try it again, then. But this time, just go for a slash, not a jab. The jabs hurt." Victor suggested, retrieving both of their makeshift weapons and tossing Sherlock his broom. The boy adjusted his stance, shuffling back and forth across the stage and beginning his lines as the aggressive Romeo Montague. The play was still about a month away, plenty of time to get through the lines, assemble the costume design, and perhaps summon up better weaponry than these petty school supplies. The rest of the cast watched in adoration, memorizing each of the lines as the scene went on and on, replayed almost a hundred times so as to get the words right, the stances right, and the sword fight down to what could be a convincing duel. This year's play would be the climax of their theater production, being as though the cast's lead roles would all be graduating this year. Sherlock, Victor, and their leading lady Jeanette would end their high school careers in the town of Verona, each one trying for one of the multiple theater awards that the local high schools hosted. Sherlock had been a three year recipient for best actor, Victor a two time recipient of best supporting actor, and Jeanette had won two times as well. The program was one of the most esteemed in the entire state, though what was left of the school's cast for next year would be shaky at best. They had some younger talent, though nothing to fill the large shoes that were being left behind. Therefore, this production of Romeo and Juliet had to go out with a bang. If they wanted any of their due recognition from the school board, this would be the year to do it. And so, as Sherlock insisted upon constantly, everything had to be perfect. Even Victor's fake death, which at the moment needed some major help. Just as he was struck down for the fifteenth time today, this time with a very painful looking knock to the hip, his lines were interrupted with what could only be a herd of wild buffalos moving down the front hallway. Even his gasp was crowded out by the cheering and stamping, and before long the auditorium doors flew open and announced the presence of the football team as they made their way to their morning practice. Sherlock's shoulders drooped, though instinctively he clutched the broomstick ever harder, just in case he would have to defend himself once more by the shenanigans of the school's jocks.
"Oh I hate it when they do that!" Jeanette whined from where she sat on the stage, stamping her fists onto the hardwood in a drowned out protest. Sherlock stood tall, staring down at the boys as they moved through in a fluid motion from the top of the auditorium and down the aisles, some jumping the individual rows so as to display their athleticism. Sherlock grimaced, hearing the plastic chairs squeaking with the impact, and mustering up his courage decided that today was the day to protest. It had been a long while since anyone opened their mouth to defy the jocks, as there was a definitive rivalry between the two programs. Perhaps today was the day that they got their rightful scolding. After all, how many times would Sherlock be armed to meet them?
"Excuse me!" Sherlock demanded, tapping the end of his broomstick upon the stage to summon up the attention of even the rowdiest of boys. All together they stopped, staring up at Sherlock with that stupid look of defiance on their face. It was the look of deep interest, with the desire to follow Sherlock's rules in exactly the opposite fashion as he spelled them out. What a group of insensitive, brainless monkeys!
"Where is your captain?" Sherlock wondered, looking around the group for the most familiar face of them all. Oh it was a face that he had been stuck with for twelve years now, his polar opposite and definitive rival. Where was he, that John Watson?
"This is your captain speaking, I hear you loud and clear." came a sing song voice from the back of the auditorium, bringing attention to one of the shortest figures in the room. John gave a little wave before proceeding towards the stage, making it a point to jump over each row of seats and by doing so taking about five minutes of silence to hurtle each and every chair. Sherlock waited impatiently, tapping his broomstick against the floor in obvious disinterest. When at last John appeared before him, Sherlock gave him a very teacher-like scowl, feeling quiet powerful being so much taller with the advantage of the elevated stage.
"Sherlock Holmes, what can I do for you today?" John wondered at last, resting his arms at Sherlock's feet and leaning over to set his chin on top. There was a series of chuckles from his team, each one always reveling in their captain's very poor sense of humor. Sherlock scoffed, but continued.
"I can politely ask you to use the hallways which were made for pedestrians, and not interrupt our rehearsals any longer! We need silence, and that seems to be one thing your team has not yet mastered." Sherlock declared at last, to which each of his friends began snapping their approval. John smirked, looking up at Sherlock with his large hazel eyes and waiting a moment to figure out a response. Sherlock allowed him time, knowing that it was difficult for his small little brain to produce anything of substance in such short notice.
"Well Sherlock, you see this is a short cut. The only thing standing in between our locker room and practice fields happens to be the auditorium, and we figure it's not too much of a bother if we move through once in a while. It saves us quite a bit of walking time, you see." John pointed out.
"You're an athlete, John, I thought you liked walking." Sherlock insisted with a scowl.
"I like running, and hitting things, and lifting weights!" John exclaimed, to which each of the football players began to stomp their feet and hoot in approval. "I don't like walking, that's for old women."
"Give it another year then." Sherlock grumbled.
"So clever, you." John huffed. "What are you doing with that broom anyway? Speaking of old women."
"I'm doing a little bit of hitting things myself. You see, in our high action play, I beat Victor Trevor unconscious, right before the eyes of the audience!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Might as well." Victor agreed from where he sulked in the curtain, messaging some of his more painful bruises during this much appreciated hiatus.
"If you told me I could've hit Victor with a broom, I would have auditioned myself." John muttered, to which the football team gave chuckles of approval.
"As if you could beat Sherlock." Victor snarled.
"In what, hitting people? I'm sure I could." John pointed out confidently.
"In acting, you pea brain!" Victor corrected, obviously feeling brave from where he stood away from immediate harm. However, all of Victor's antagonizing gave Sherlock an idea. Perhaps not his best idea, admittedly, but one that would prove entertaining for all of the parties involved.
"How about it, John?" he declared at last, taking up the pointer stick and tossing it down to where John stood. The boy caught it hesitantly, wondering what he was supposed to do with something that was obviously stolen from the nearest classroom.
"I challenge you to a duel." Sherlock laughed, brandishing his broom once more and waving around the end as threateningly as he could manage.
"I'm not going to fight you, Sherlock. I'll break your little bones in half." John protested, though his team began to shout their encouragement and smack their hands against the backs of the plastic chairs. Sherlock sighed, not seeing why such chaos was necessary.
"A duel for the auditorium. If you manage to get me, I'll stay quiet while your team parades through. If I win, you all have to go around." Sherlock proposed. This prompted the thespians to begin their snapping, though their approval was not nearly as loud as was the footballers. All the same, John looked interested. Now that there were stakes involved he certainly wouldn't back down, especially with his team so excited.
"Alright then, a duel." He chuckled in agreement, turning back towards his team to gauge their reaction.
"Stairs are right there, come on then." Sherlock agreed, inviting John up onto the stage for the battle of the ages. The boy complied, dropping his backpack onto the carpeted floor and hopping up onto the stage in a very ninja-like position. Obviously he felt he was too cool to use the stairs like any law abiding citizen. Sherlock backed up, watching as John tested out his new weapon, whacking it around in the air so agressivley that it whooshed audibly through the air. He was all strength and no tactics, for sure. Sherlock tried to calm himself down, trying to steady his heartrate and forget the large audience. He was an actor; he was used to performing in front of crowds. Certainly this would be no different. John got into his stance, a rather strange one that he must have adopted from an obscure action movie. Raising his pointer stick over his head, he pointed directly at Sherlock in a sort of challenge. Sherlock held his own stance, the proper position to opening up a fencing duel, and swung his broom around in summons. Well, John didn't hesitate, nor did he bother with any of the usual battering around that Victor usually led with. Instead of going for a more entertaining system of tapping, the boy brandished his stick more like a battle axe than a sword, and bringing it swiping through the air he smacked down hard. Thankfully Sherlock was ready, and he deflected the blow with a counter by his broom, managing to deflect John's stick for long enough to work himself away into a better defensive position. As soon as the fighting began the room erupted into cheers, the footballers all collecting at the edge of the stage while the thespians got to their feet and began to clap along in a synchronized cheer. There was noise everywhere, muffled and collected with Sherlock's own heavy breathing which was clouding up most of his senses. He wasn't sure if it was fear or adrenaline, though he was beginning to feel very overwhelmed. So many eyes on him, and here he was, without a script without, the proper talent at all! Certainly he was decent at fencing, but whatever rouge style brutality John was practicing was not going to be able to last long. Sooner or later, one of them would have to fall. Smack after smack was deflected by Sherlock's broom, though he was only able to get a couple of jabs and pokes in towards his opponent. These John dodged manually, hopping out of the way and demonstrating his athletic ability by running small laps around his opponent, taunting Sherlock with little whistles and forcing the boy to twirl around on his heel just to keep up. At long last Sherlock became dizzy, and it was this altered perception that allowed John the time he needed to get in one final shot. His pointer stick went whipping down, though this time Sherlock's head was spinning and he rather poked his broom at it, rather than deflected it properly. The pointer stick only skidded for a moment, though its full momentum was still collected enough to hit Sherlock in the side of the head so hard that he was knocked completely over. It felt...well like getting hit in the head with a stick of wood! There doesn't seem to be a better way to describe it. All of the sudden there was a flash of pain, and before long Sherlock saw not John Watson, but the ceiling instead. He dropped the broomstick in an attempt to grab at his fresh wound, and as his hearing returned from the steady ringing he was able to make out the great cheers coming from the brutish jocks, hitting their hands upon the stage so that the entire floor began to shake.
"Aha, there we go!" John exclaimed excitedly, dropping his weapon and waving his arms around victoriously. Sherlock winced, feeling around for any blood and finding only a drop or two returning upon his fingertips. Not a bad wound, then, but a painful one indeed. It felt as though the entire side of his face had been numbed, though from what he could tell it only seemed to be his right temple which had been struck. He sat up, figuring it wasn't the best show of sportsmanship to wallow around in your defeat, with your back upon the hardwood floor.
"You could've killed him!" Jeanette protested, now on her feet and rushing to Sherlock's side.
"I'll try harder next time." John scoffed, hopping down from the stage and joining his friends in their makeshift mosh pit. "I imagine this makes it a firm deal? No more complaining on your part, Romeo?"
"A deal's a deal." Sherlock grumbled in agreement, wincing as Jeanette poked at his wound with a sharp fingernail.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you." John chuckled, shouldering his backpack once more and nodding towards the backdoor, the one that led directly to their practice fields. As per that cue the boys began to jump away, clapping their captain on the back and rejoicing in his victory. Before long the theater had fallen silent once more, the backdoor slamming shut in finality and leaving the auditorium as empty as it had been when they began their practice. Sherlock said nothing else, in fact none of the thespians found it within themselves to talk. Instead they mourned, knowing that in his attempt to do some good, Sherlock had actually made their situation worse. Now the jocks would be parading through every day, without a voice able to protest against it. 

Scraping his shoe against the sidewalk, Sherlock watched impatiently for his brother's car to make its way through the lot. Even though the school was only a short walking distance from his house Mycroft insisted to pick him up, probably just to show off his snazzy sports car to as many people as he could manage. Well, no one was impressed with it any longer.
"How's your face?" Victor wondered from next to him on the bike rack, balancing with his feet in the air for a more entertaining way to pass the time. Victor was their next door neighbor, and as such was given special privileges to ride along with Sherlock on his way to and from school. It was a system that had worked pretty well, up until Mycroft had taken over as the designated chauffeur. He was always late, even when his car could get up to speeds highly illegal on most roadways.
"Still beautiful, I imagine. How's yours?" Sherlock mumbled, not very much in the mood to discuss his very public defeat. Now that the pain was settling the shame was beginning to dawn on him, and before long he realized that he had challenged the football captain and lost all in the span of about three minutes. Oh how humiliating was that, to lose so obviously to John Watson! And in front of all those jocks, who would undoubtedly be discussing it for weeks! They took such pride in bruising up the theater kids, as if it was a hobby, or an accomplishment! And unless Sherlock could find a shade of makeup that would match his skin tone, he would be walking around with the marks of defeat for as long as it took this nasty bruise to heal.
"Don't take it personally; we all knew he was going to do something stupid." Victor suggested, evidently reading Sherlock's thoughts.
"That's because he's a barbarian! I'm sure the scientists would love him, the most obvious evolutionary link between us and monkeys." Sherlock scowled, shaking his head and giving a small pebble a little kick. That was as much violence as he could procure for the evening, for as soon as he began to get excited he heard the familiar engine of that stupid sports car, sputtering and revving as it took the tight turns around the school's driveway and towards the corner where Sherlock usually sat.
"Speaking of monkeys." Victor mumbled, getting to his feet and rearranging his backpack upon his shoulders. The car stopped abruptly, the breaks smooth and silent as the window rolled down to greet them. The windows were tinted, though Mycroft liked to show off his smug face as often as possible to the rest of the kids who were lined up along the sidewalk, waiting for the parents in their perfectly modest minivans. From the car classical music could be heard, for Mycroft enjoyed using the first rate stereo system to play Vivaldi. No one said anything, Sherlock just yanked open the back door and slid into the car, lying on his back across all of the seats and dropping his backpack at his feet. The violins were increasingly loud as he lay with his ears against the door, but not quite loud enough to block out the boring draws of his infuriating brother.
"How was practice, boys?" Mycroft asked, taking a moment to adjust his mirrors and straighten his posture against the leather seats.
"Sherlock killed me about fifteen times." Victor said proudly.
"You look perfectly alive to me." Mycroft commented, his black eyes scanning the boy in the passenger seat with some obvious disappointment.
"Yes well, that's the miracle of theater. We have plenty of versatility, including a strong interest in necromancy." Victor agreed with a little grin. Mycroft hummed in agreement, finally putting his foot to the pedal and accelerating madly, the engine roaring as the car shot off down the parking lot. It was so unnecessary, the shows he made! How he loved to demonstrate his money, as if he was so well off, as if he wasn't still living with his parents!
"and you, Sherlock? Did you let Victor kill you back?" Mycroft wondered, perhaps noticing the state of agony his younger brother was wallowing in.
"I wish." Sherlock grumbled. "No, today I let John Watson kill me."
"John Watson? What on earth was he doing at theater practice? Don't tell me he auditioned?" Mycroft growled, that name sparking immediate hostility. While the two had never met each other in person, the name was very well known to most everyone in the Holmes family. John had been one of Sherlock's greatest problems throughout all the years, his elementary school annoyance, his middle school bully, and now it would seem his high school rival. Throughout the years they had been at each other's throats, so perfectly opposite that they couldn't even cooperate on the mutual hatred!
"No of course not." Sherlock muttered, though he offered no further context. Even Victor was silent on the subject, seeming to respect Sherlock's humiliation and not so readily share it with his pesky brother. Of course Mycroft would figure out the full story, as he so often did, though for now it would be interesting to watch his little brain struggle to connect the dots between the bruise on the side of Sherlock's face and John Watson's interference in theater practice.