Marooned

If not for the lurid bruise on his cheek and the scrapes on his knuckles, John might have thought none of it had really happened. In the light of the next morning, with its sensible eggs and toast, the usual snappish remarks between his mother and teenage sister, and the absolutely mundane walk to school, Sherlock Holmes seemed too odd to be true. Maybe he'd dreamt up the whole thing, imagined it all just because he was bored and alone and wanted a friend so badly. But there was the bruise, and where else could he have gotten it? His mother might have swallowed the lie about falling down the stairs, but John knew better than that.

But it was too good to be true, and even if everything had happened as he remembered it, there was no guarantee that Sherlock was actually his friend. He hadn't seemed particularly enthusiastic about the idea; John had assumed they were friends after what they'd been through together, but what if Sherlock thought he was an idiot? He probably had no intention of associating with John anymore, and since they weren't in the same class, there was little chance of spending much time with him otherwise.

John didn't think he could stand it if he saw Sherlock walk right past him at lunch, so when he collected his tray John went to a table in the corner of the cafeteria and sat with his back to the room. He tried to ignore everything around him, but he felt as though everyone in the room were staring at him. Judging.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a pretty, dark-haired girl walking towards him. He straightened a little in his seat, wondering if she would actually sit down with him. She looked nice. Friendly. Cheerful. Maybe it didn't matter if Sherlock...

As the girl approached, her eyebrows suddenly shot up and she veered away from John's table as though afraid of catching cooties. At the same moment, someone slid onto the bench on the other side of the table. "Don't worry, I just saved you from the most effusive gossip in the entire school."

A thrill ran down John's spine as he stared at the boy sitting at his table and picking his roll to crumbs. Apparently Sherlock didn't care to get his own tray. "Sherlock?" John said dumbly. "Wh-What do you mean?"

Sherlock nodded in the direction the girl had gone. "Jeanette. She was intending to chat you up, find out all about you, and then tell her air-brained friends all of your secrets so they could laugh about you behind your back until the next new student turns up."

John looked at Sherlock carefully. "They did that to you, didn't they?"

Sherlock looked up at John swiftly, with a calculating look in his eye. Then he turned away again and said casually, "Naturally. I didn't mind, though."

John smiled to himself and went back to his meal. "Of course you didn't."

----------

By the end of the first week, John no longer worried that Sherlock wouldn't want to be his friend. After asking around a bit, John discovered that Sherlock was already in his final year of primary school, so most of the time they moved in completely different circles. But they always sat together at lunch, and Sherlock had a knack for passing him in the hallway. John began to suspect his new friend had memorized his timetable just so they could cross paths and share a few words.

John's classmates were all pleasant enough, and he got on pretty well with the boy who sat next to him in class. They were even able to help each other with homework. But John got the distinct impression that his classmates gave him a wide berth when he was around Sherlock. No one seemed keen on getting too close to John, either, as though Sherlock's oddness was catching.

It made him wonder whether this was what Sherlock had had to endure his whole life. Had people always singled him out, thought him strange, avoided speaking to him? Had no one simply smiled at him and tried to get to know him? John supposed he could understand their aversion to a certain extent; Sherlock's remarks were scathing and often downright rude. But it made John sad and a little angry to realize that it was quite possible Sherlock had never had a real friend before either.

And it wasn't just that John was desperate and couldn't do better. He genuinely enjoyed Sherlock's company; there was something invigorating and almost exotic about him that John found exhilarating. He never knew what Sherlock was going to say next, because his mind worked on such a higher plane, at such a faster pace, that it was impossible to keep up.

"What do you want to do when you grow up?" Sherlock asked without preamble one lunch in the second week of their acquaintance, sliding into his usual seat across from John. He shoveled food into his mouth with great gusto, as though he hadn't eaten in days – and John wouldn't be too surprised to learn that was true.

"Erm...I've thought about joining the army," John replied, trying to hide his surprise with a loud slurp of his soup. "What about you?"

"I'm going to become a pirate."

John waited, but Sherlock didn't laugh or give any indication it was a joke. In fact, he seemed completely serious. "But...Sherlock, you can't become a pirate."

Sherlock frowned, affronted. "Why on earth not?"

"Because there aren't any pirates these days. That was all back in the...eighteenth century or something. If you did that sort of thing nowadays, you'd just get caught by the police."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and brushed that worry aside. "I'll show you one of these days, John. Mark my words."

They were still arguing over the matter when they left school that afternoon, heading around to the front of the school where Sherlock's car would be waiting for him. John's voice rose higher and higher as he tried to get it through Sherlock's thick skull that no, it wouldn't be a good idea to chop off his leg and get a wooden one, but suddenly Sherlock stopped short and threw up a hand to signal silence.

"D'you hear that?"

John stopped and listened, trying to tune out the chattering voices of children leaving the front of the school building. Then he heard it: a soft, snuffling sound coming from behind the greenhouse. "Is that...?"

They sneaked towards the source of the sound, and poked their heads around the greenhouse. Startled, the boy who had been hiding behind the bushes sprang to his feet and hastily wiped his tears away. John recognized him from class. "Lestrade, isn't it?"

Lestrade sniffed and nodded miserably. He was a chubby boy with curly brown hair who sat by the window and was often caught staring dreamily out of it. At first John only noticed the tear streaks on his cheeks, but then he noticed the rip in Lestrade's shirt and his swollen, bleeding lip.

"Are you all right?" he asked, hurrying forward and looking at the nasty cut. "Who did this to you? Here." He handed Lestrade his handkerchief to help stem the flow of blood.

"'Fanks," Lestrade said thickly, his voice wobbling a little as he held the handkerchief to his lip.

Suddenly Sherlock spoke up. "It was Carter, wasn't it? Carter and Anderson."

Lestrade looked up in surprise. "H-How'd you guess?"

"I didn't guess, I observed. They were watching you in the hallways like vultures circling their prey. Today's the day you get your pocket money, so they decided it was a prime chance to beat you up and take it from you."

Lestrade lowered the handkerchief in astonishment. "How'd you know I got my pocket money?"

Sherlock pointed. "Your pockets are hanging inside-out. Given the circumstances and the small likelihood that you're starting some new fashion trend, I'd say it was a logical deduction, and it fits their M.O."

"What, are you a detective now?" John muttered. "I thought you wanted to be a pirate."

Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms. "I suppose now you're going to say we need to tell a teacher; it's one of those boring rule things, isn't it?"

John frowned. "Actually, I was going to ask you how to get back at them. We need to stop them before they beat up someone else."

At this, Sherlock grinned. "We're going to get revenge the same way any pirate worth his salt would."

John was aware of Lestrade looking between them in confusion, but his own heart thrilled with the call of adventure. "What, make them walk the plank?"

"Hmm, promising idea, but I know for a fact they both take swimming lessons, so punishment by diving board is out. No, I've got a better idea." His smile widened into one worthy of the Grinch. "Maroon them."

----------

John had no idea what Sherlock was planning, and couldn't get another word from him on the subject until the following day at lunch. As usual, John was just tucking in to his meal when Sherlock slid onto the bench across from him and unceremoniously announced, "Sally Donovan."

"What?"

Apparently this was one of Sherlock's non-eating days; the only thing in his hands was a mobile phone. A pink mobile phone. "Sally Donovan," he repeated, nodding to the table where Carter and his friends sat. "Anderson's girlfriend." John noticed Anderson sitting with his arm around a black girl's shoulders.

"Wait..." John looked between Donovan and the pink mobile phone. "You mean that's... Where did you get it?"

"Nicked it from her purse, of course," Sherlock said casually, beginning to type a text message. "This, John, is our key to marooning Carter and Anderson. I thought we'd start with Anderson; his face annoys me."

He turned the phone around briefly to show John what he'd written before he sent the text. Anderson, you have the face of a horse and the temperament of a camel.

"Wait, Sherlock, you can't-"

Too late. He could already see Anderson extricating himself from his girlfriend enough to check his phone. John grabbed his tray and started to get up. "I'm getting out of here before there's a nuclear explosion-"

Sherlock hooked his foot around John's knee under the table and made him sit down again sharply. "Don't move; they might suspect something. Just act like normal." He put the pink phone back into his pocket and pulled out another one. He started tapping away, and Carter went for his phone as Anderson started snapping at Donovan.

"How many phones did you steal?" John asked, aghast, as Sherlock kept pulling out new phones and sending messages to everyone at Carter's table. Soon, the table erupted with a dozen arguments, all of which seemed directed at Carter and Anderson.

Now everyone in the hall was turning round in their seats to watch the bickering. John only turned back to his own table when he heard a clatter and saw that Lestrade had joined them, sitting at his side and grinning at Sherlock.

"It was you, wasn't it? You did all this somehow. You're weird, but I like you!" He dug back into his chocolate cake and continued watching their revenge unfold.

Over the next few days, John came to see exactly what Sherlock meant by 'marooning' the bullies. Sherlock had sent insults to some and revealed secrets to others, but all of Carter and Anderson's friends would have nothing to do with them anymore. The two didn't seem able to understand how their tight little group had fallen apart so quickly, but it was obvious it would be a long while before any of their friends would speak to them again. They were alone as effectively as if Sherlock really had left them on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific.

To be completely honest, John almost felt sorry for them. If not for the faint remains of the bruise that still lingered on his cheek, he might have been able to forget how cruel they were, out of sympathy for how lonely they obviously were now. They were now in the same position he and Sherlock had been in until they met each other. Had their positions been completely switched? Were John and Sherlock now bullies as Carter and Anderson had been?

The day after their victory over the bullies, John and Sherlock made their way to their customary table, passing by the table where Carter and Anderson sat sullenly over their own lunches. Carter looked up as they passed, and his eyes darkened as he saw who it was. Leaping to his feet, he said, "I don't know how you did it, but this was your fault, wasn't it? You freak."

Sherlock snatched John's tray from him and thrust it into Carter's face. "Run," he said calmly, and sped towards the door. John scrambled after him as Carter howled with rage and everyone in the cafeteria whirled around to watch. They raced down the hallway, dodging the janitor, and turned a corner.

As John ran at Sherlock's side, his doubts trickled away. Carter and Anderson had deserved what they got. Sherlock was his friend, so he would remain loyal to him. Even if it meant running for dear life, it was all he needed to know that he was no longer alone.