Freak - Teenlock/Johnlock AU

Part 7

Quick question because being the notoriously bad story planner that I am, there's a pretty large plot point that I still don't know where I'm going with. Question is this: would you like Johnlock to happen in this story, or non? I'm happy to write either 😊
Oh, and you seem to like the Sherlock quoting so I've gone all out in this chapter. Anyway, as you were.

By 11:40, the school had been evacuated, and police had colonised the science block. Sherlock and I were in an empty classroom, accompanied by the sound of Sherlock's squeaking whiteboard pen on one of the desks. From somewhere he'd procured two coffees, and they were sat steaming on the bookshelf, against the maths textbooks. I hadn't touched mine, but Sherlock was sipping his on and off as he drew a scale diagram of the crime scene on the wood.
"Aren't your parents worrying about their precious son or something?" he asked after twenty minutes of sitting in silence. "The school will have rung everyone on the database by now."
"My dad's at work," I replied.
"So?" he said, raising one ragged eyebrow.
"So no one will answer." I hoped this would be enough, but of course with this being Sherlock, it wasn't.
"What about your mother? Is it not standard for one member of the family to answer the phone if the other is out, especially if it's from somewhere which would only call in an emergency? Say, a school?"
"My parents don't live together," I said. "When they split up, my dad kept our old house, so he has the number. I moved in with my mum, but we never really bothered to tell school. Mum, she kept going on about it, but... She must have forgotten by now. Harry, that's my sister, she used to live with us too - Mum got custody - but she's moved back in with dad. Sorry, I don't know why I just told you all of that."
Sherlock shrugged. "I already knew. Good opportunity to check my predictions. I was correct, by the way."
I gawped at him.
"How can you possibly have guessed all of that?" (A/N: "How can you possibly know about the drinking?")
Sherlock scoffed. "Please," he said, cocking one thick eyebrow. "I never guess." (A/N: "it is a shocking habit, destructive to the logical faculty." One from the books, just to keep things wild).
One half of my brain was dying to know but the other was still full of horror that Sherlock did not seem to be experiencing. Somehow the reason why Sherlock knew school wouldn't be able to contact my parents seemed disrespectful to talk about. The image of the body was seared across my eyelids, appearing whenever I blinked just as when you look at a light for too long. The surface of the coffee reflected the light from the windows, glossy and slick. Sherlock put his mug down and I saw the dregs inside; dark, congealed. I swallowed.
"What will happen now then?" I asked. Would we be told who it was? Would we have a school assembly? Would they act like it had never happened, like when a year seven fell into a coma playing rugby and no one said anything until he made a recovery and was secreted back into lessons as if he'd just been for year long holiday?
"Oh good, I was hoping you'd ask," Sherlock replied, throwing down his pen and swivelling to face me. "The police will do their thing, take photos, do tests, make a mess with that heinous tape..." I made a mental note to one day ask him the reason for this personal vendetta. "...The body will likely be moved tomorrow morning, and shortly after questioning will begin. We'll obviously have time off school which I can't say I'm too devastated about, are you? Once suspects have been questionned, they'll be suspicious if someone asks to speak to them again. Understandable. So, I'd say we have about twenty four hours in which to conduct our interviews. How much sleep do you need per night?"
"Slow down," I said, feeling like I was wading through treacle trying to keep up with Sherlock's thought process. "You mean you want us to carry out interviews before the actual cops even start? You don't think that, aside from basic illegality, there might be a few technical flaws?"
Sherlock stared at me blankly.
"Perhaps the fact we're sixteen year old boys?"
"I make excellent disguises."
"Yes, and I once went as Madonna to my sister's birthday party."
Sherlock sniggered.
"Oh, shit, forget I ever said that."
"Never," Sherlock replied. "I knew there was a good reason I had a mind palace."
"A what?"
"A mind palace. Also known as Method of Loci, don't they teach you anything? No wonder you all do so badly in tests. What do you use, flash cards? Oh God, you don't make mind maps do you? Never mind. Method of Loci is based on the fact that the brain remembers locations best. Ever wonder why you can remember the route somewhere after only having travelled it once? Wait, you can do that can't y-"
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm not entirely stupid."
"I beg to differ," he said. I frowned, and wondered what Sherlock would say about my 92% in biology. "Oh, don't look like that, practically everyone is. Anyway, when I need to keep information I deposit it in a place in my mind. A familiar place. At the minute it's my bedroom, but I'm running out of space in there so I think I'll start using the library soon. When I need the data, I imagine myself going to that place. I never forget anything. The capacity for long term memory is enormous, possibly infinite, anyway - Wagenaar, 1986."
"You've got a library in your house?" I asked. My dad and my sister had renounced books, and my mum insisted she didn't have time to read and preferred women's magazines. I had some in my room; Grey's Anatomy, a medical thesaurus, biology and chemistry textbooks, Harry Potter and a complete set of James Bond.
Sherlock had just opened his mouth to speak when the bell for lunch rang. But there was none of the usual scraping of chairs, thudding of feet and slamming of textbooks back onto piles; only silence. It was disconcerting. Wait, what was that? Two pairs of footsteps were heading for our classroom. Sherlock pulled me behind a desk, realised his coffee and drawings were still on top of it, swore, and flung himself across the surface of the desk just as the door opened and the school secretary and Mr Rogers entered. The secretary had her glasses chain tangled around her neck and was holding a frantically buzzing walkie talkie, through which snippets of words could be heard. "Students... Maths block... Sherlock... Insufferable... Oh, yes, hello, police right this way." Her face was like milk compared to Mr Rogers' interesting shade of cerise. He kept raking his hands through his hair.
"Get this way, both of you," he snapped, catching his fingers in a knot. "I can't believe... And get off that desk! Now! We thought something had happened to you both. No! You're just bumming around in a classroom!"
"We've been so flustered," the secretary added.
Sherlock slid off the desk. He'd done a pretty good job of acting as a human polishing cloth; it was only his grubby maroon jumper that showed any evidence. He sloped out of the door and Mr Rogers exhaled loudly.
"John," he said. "I never thought it would be you to be so stupid..."
I was pretty sure he went on to say something else, but my attention was distracted. In front of me, Sherlock had got his fingers around the secretary's walkie talkie and was oh so casually slipping it from her belt loop into his pocket, as if it had been a bar of soap.