A/N: This is for AssainOfRome to celebrate her twenty- fifth fic. Although, I'm a bit late. Sorry, Rome! Please read her fics, they are really good. :D Enjoy! :D
NOTE: I have rewritten this chapter because it didn't really read that well, when I read over it after posting it. Despite it's original length of well over nine- hundred words, it still seemed too short. I hope you like this version better. If you like the original better, please let me know so I can switch it out again. Thank you! :D
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The Freak is what they call me when they think I cannot hear their whispers. "Have you heard what The Freak has done now?" they whisper.
No one understands that I can't help what I see, smell, touch. What I observe. It's not my fault they ask me to explain how I knew their secrets. When they ask, I'm compelled to answer, and then they realize why I'm "The Freak."
"Mr Holmes, perhaps you can tell us?" a voice asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Sherlock Holmes looked away from the small group positioned on the opposite side of the room, who were, obviously, talking about him. He glanced at the blackboard to orient himself, then returned Mr. Flanagan's gaze. Sherlock gave an answer in the silent room, all too aware that the group of four he had been trying to ignore, were just waiting for him to slip up.
His English teacher raised an eyebrow in surprise and silent admiration. "Very goo. That is the right answer, Mr. Holmes." He continued with the lesson
Under Mr. Flanagan's steady stream of informative dialogue, Sherlock heard the slight, disbelieving gasp, a muttered, "Freak," and then quiet giggles. He rolled his eyes and slouched further in his seat. And it seems that answering correctly is, also, freakish, he thought.
The door to the classroom, which Sherlock was sitting near, opened suddenly, jarring Sherlock out of his thoughts and his progressive ideas on how to further aggravate the "Main Three," as he liked to call Sally Donovan, James Anderson, and Peter Dimmock. He glared at the disturbingly unapologetic door for a second before turning his sharp, piercing gaze on the student, who was responsible for opening it.
In the five seconds it took for the boy to cross the room where Mr. Flanangan stood, glaring at him for being late, Sherlock's brain proccessed that the shorter, blond boy was new, was the youngest of, at least, two siblings total, and had a small dog.
By the time he held his paper out to Mr. Flanagan, Sherlock had returned his attention to the group of four sitting near the windows. Sherlock sat near the wall nearest to the door, the only seat he could feel comfortable taking.
Sally Donovan shot him a glare, which Sherlock returned with a smug smirk as Mr. Flanagan introduced the new student.
"Students, this is," he glanced quickly at the slip of paper, "John Watson. He moved here from the North. Mr. Watson, please take a seat," the teacher handed the paper back to Watson.
Sherlock had heard all this in the background, he ignored Watson for now, confident the boy wouldn't sit near someone who was painfully, obviously, shunned. Besides, Watson had been in this school long enough to have heard about him and, probably, had him pointed out to him.
He was still staring at Donovan when her expression changed from complete hatred to curiosity right before Sherlock heard the scrapping of a chair being pulled across the hard concrete floor. His furrowed his brows, confused. If his ears weren't deceiving him, which he knew wasn't likely, he could've sworn the sound came from beside him.
Sherlock turned just in time to catch Watson plopping his pack onto the desk and his self in the chair. He stared at him as Watson unpacked what he needed.
John finally noticed the stare and looked at the boy next to him, nervously. He wasn't usually nervous or shy, but when he met the other's icy blue- grey eyes, he felt nervous and the fact that he moved to a new town and started going to a new school didn't help. It just seemed to enhance that feeling of self- awareness you get when you go somewhere new.
"What?" John whispered.
The boy blinked his piercing eyes, slowly as if he were trying to figure out something that was very complicated. "Why did you choose this seat?" he asked, gesturing to the seat which John was sitting in, which was one seat away from the wall.
John glanced around the room and noticed quite a few pairs of eyes were looking at them. They were either full- out staring, or secretly out of the corners of their eyes. John's self- awareness grew as he wondered if he had done something that they didn't think was right. "Does someone else sit here? I can move," he asked as he prepared to move to another desk.
"No, no it's... fine," the other whispered, before turning his attention to the teacher.
John looked at his profile for a few seconds before following suit.
Sherlock's mind was whirring with questions and confusion. Why did Watson choose this seat? Was it because he had made friends with somebody who wanted more gossip to spread around? He looked at Watson out of the corner of his eye and immediately dispelled that thought.
Watson didn't seem like the type to trust other people and make friends too quickly and he this is his first day in this school. Besides, he would be trying to talk to Sherlock more and ask him questions. No, of course not.
So, then, why?
Sherlock started slightly as the bell, that signified that class was over, rang. He leaned back in his chair as the river of students clogged the aisles and the front of the class, making passage impossible. He forgot Watson as he observed the students shuffling past, seeing what they took such pains to hide from their peers, friends, and teachers. When Donovan walked by, she ignored him completely and, instead, stared at the desk next to Sherlock with fierce curiosity.
Puzzled, Sherlock followed her glance and saw Watson still sitting there, finishing writing the few notes he had managed to take. Sherlock continued to stare at him with surprise. He hadn't realized Watson had been still sitting there, until now. He narrowed his eyes slightly, the only outward indication of his shock, studying Watson.
He knew Watson was aware of Sherlock watching him, but he didn't meet Sherlock's steady gaze. So, there was some timidity, but not too much. Watson was, also, slightly freaked out judging from the way he kept looking at Sherlock furtively from the corner of his eye.
In short, Watson was like the others. He was timid, unobservant, and freaked out if Sherlock looked at him for long.
Sherlock averted his gaze. The new kid wasn't worth his time. He was boring, dull, ordinary, stupid. Watson wouldn't even last a day without joining Donovan's little group, the ASH. So, at the soonest possibility, Sherlock stood, flung his pack on his back, and moved quickly out the door, not giving John Watson another thought.
End of Chapter 1
A/N: I based this slightly off of Toby Mac's "I'm For You." It's a real good song I encourage you to check it out. I hope you enjoyed! :D