The rest of the day followed in the same fashion, with each one of their points of contact proving to be eliminated by a large crowd or a posse of too many judgmental faces. Just as John was constantly surrounded by his friends, so too was Sherlock Holmes. It would be impossible to get a conversation between just the two of them, not without angry faces of one end and humorous judgment on the other. Perhaps their worlds were too different to issue a proper apology, and John would have to go on the rest of his life without ever amending for his maltreatment. The whole business only brought out one rather troubling aspect of his psyche, a realization that he knew each and every moment in their corresponding schedules the two boys would meet. He knew that after his history class he would join the flow of students a couple of heads behind Sherlock, as he was leaving from the other end of the hallway in the math department. And before lunch John would stand at his locker and watch as the theater posse went by, unfailingly containing Sherlock Holmes and his shadow Victor Trevor. And before John's gym class he could see Sherlock toting around that large violin case, headed to the music room, intersecting John's walk by only a couple of steps in the crowd. This all brought it down to the final moment, the last chance any of these long suffering children got to see their friends before the busses pulled away, the last minute locker dash. The senior lockers were in their own separate hallway, separated by large cement block columns so as to keep the sections controlled and not too crowded. Sherlock's locker was two columns down, which John only knew because one time he had watched Mike sliding a stinking piece of cheese through the vents into his locker. It was a little surprise, a present in exchange for the one time Sherlock had beaten him in Spanish Bingo near the beginning of the semester. Now that John scanned his memories relating to Sherlock in the past year, well each one of them seemed to be linked to different forms of abuse. Would an apology even be necessary, now in the wake of such obvious brutality? John squatted down to his locker, zoning out for a moment as he stared into the dark depths. Football practice began in fifteen minutes, was there really a time to manage it? John looked across the way, staring to see whether Sherlock was surrounded by his friends or not. Surely he would be off to theater practice, so probably in a rush. John found that his breathing had increased, though he wasn't sure why. It felt as if he was afraid, afraid of what that skinny little thing would think of him! Oh the nerve, how could he be so afraid of just one sentence? I'm sorry...surely that's all it would take! Two little words, effortless, not even two single breath's worth of statement! He could do it, he could do it. John got to his feet with a nod of determination, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and shutting his locker door with a slam. He turned, finding to his relief that Sherlock was standing alone by his own locker, poking around at his bangs with the help of his magnetic mirror. Oh, what a pansy. John began the march, mustering up the courage and repeating those two words in his head over and over again, certainly so that he could never forget. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
"John!" an unexpected voice blurted out at his side.
"I'm sorry!" John responded instinctually, his mouth working much faster than his brain could keep up.
"Sorry for what?" the speaker was Molly Hooper, one of the more rouge characters throughout this school. She played a neutral card throughout the feud, standing right in no man's land as the nerds and the jocks hid in their trenches. She was the school newspaper's editor, writer, and perhaps even founder. It was a pointless publication, really, though the girl took great pride in keeping it up and running. Often times she would shove the paper into people's backpacks when they weren't looking, just to get rid of her excess copies.
"Oh, nothing. Just...just thought I got in your way." John muttered, taking advantage of the fact that she had suddenly stepped in front of his way. Oh the nerve of some people! And there, there went Sherlock Holmes. John sighed heavily, not trying to hide his frown as he looked down upon the girl who had interrupted his mission.
"No, I got in your way. It's an easier tactic for trying to handle you wild kids." She said with a grin, a mouthful of braces showing through her parted lips. John nodded, wondering if she meant 'kids' so as to intentionally alienate her from the rest of the group. She seemed the type to think herself an adult, falling more in line with some of the older English teachers than any of the students who roamed the hallways.
"Oh well, good to hear." John muttered with a sigh.
"I was wondering if tomorrow during study hour you could come to the school newspaper's office? I would like to interview you for a preseason snapshot, to give our readers a better idea of what to expect in this coming football season." Molly said excitedly.
"Readers?" John scoffed under his breath, though corrected himself at last. "Ya, I could do that."
"The office is right next to the faculty breakroom, down this hall, take..."
"I know where the office is, Molly. It's got the word Newspaper written in those paper letters across the front." John remembered.
"That's the very one!" Molly said excitedly, as if she took John's navigational skills to be a personal compliment. John nodded, happy to see her big smile breaking out. Well, it was good to make others happy, even when those others were a little bit...odd.
"Well Molly, I guess I'll see you tomorrow. But for now I've got to get to practice, or there will be no preseason for me." John muttered, bidding her a quick goodbye before pushing past and taking great strides to the locker room, now incredibly aware that he only had ten minutes to get changed and rush out to the practice fields. Well, the good thing was he knew a short cut. 

John went into school early the next day, as the football team held morning lifts three days a week. It was about seven o'clock when they were excused back to the locker rooms, so as to shower and change back into their school clothes for the day. No one was in a particularly chipper mood, except of course for Mike, who stored enough natural energy inside of his body to power a triple espresso. John stood mulling in the hot water for a little longer than usual, his arms aching from the repeated curls that they were doing and his legs wobbling from the squats. Football certainly wasn't easy, and their practice today would undoubtedly prove the fact. Their coach never took heed of what they had done in the morning, as if the sparse couple of hours between the morning lift and afternoon practice was enough time to let their suffering bodies heal. But if it was what they had to do to win the championship, well then certainly it would be worth it. This was the best team the school had seen in a long while, and to defend their title of crowned champion would be quite the challenge. All of the teams in their local league were looking strong, and to come out on top would take more than just hard morning lifts, more than repetitive afternoon practices, more than thirty pushups a night. It would take guts, and strength, and sweat, and blood. Most importantly, it was going to need John's head in the game, which would be a problem of course, since it was still floating around in the realms of shame. John was almost getting over his mistreatment of Sherlock when Greg just had to bring it up. Midway through getting dressed Greg pointed out a little bruise he found on his calf bone, probably left there after tapping his leg against one of the benches this morning. Well, so sparked a conversation about bruises, and before long John was hearing once again about how nasty Sherlock's blemish turned out to be.
"You must've really whacked him, John. I haven't seen a marking like that since my dad last finished a bottle of Absolut." One of the boys commented with a snicker, to which he received a bit of saddened hums. John nodded, closing his locker quickly and pulling his sweatshirt over his head.
"Ya well, I feel bad about it." he admitted at last.
"Don't need to feel bad about it." Greg protested. "He's the one who challenged you, he must've known what was coming."
"Besides, the little brat needed a wakeup call. Who is he to tell us where we can and cannot walk? I find it a wonderful relief to be able to interrupt their practices from now until the end of time." piped in another voice.
"Besides, we might be able to challenge Victor next. If so, I'll be the one to fight him. I'll knock his head clean off." Mike said eagerly, to which the whole locker room began to chuckle in agreement. Even John couldn't help but smile at that one, though he quickly erased his laughter and tried to focus on more serious business. Thankfully the conversation shifted, from admiring John's handiwork to a complaint about that ever snarky Victor Trevor, and before long John was able to sneak out of the locker room unnoticed. The rest of the day continued in its normal fashion, though as time wore on John felt that it would be better to leave his apology behind. With every day elapsed, the space between the injury and the apology would grow, and with that so would the awkwardness. Sherlock would take to wondering why John hadn't done it sooner; he would grow suspicious as to what Johns' real intentions were. No, he couldn't bring himself to try to get Sherlock alone any longer. It was becoming water under the bridge, or perhaps just another offense that would be stored away in Sherlock's memories. That boy seemed to hold one of the longest lasting grudges, for he seemed to remember everything that John had ever done to him, dating back to the elementary school playground! Well, comparing this little duel to the time John pushed him off the top of the slide, perhaps this wasn't the worst offense there had been. Perhaps John had owed Sherlock many more apologies than he had ever given out, and this time would end up being no different. Unless the Fates arranged it, John's lips would be sealed. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock leaned up against the passenger side window with some disinterest, the radio changing from station to station in a short, changeable fashion. Each station seemed to be playing commercials, and the ones that weren't were only the religious stations and the country ones. Surely nothing decent to listen to, however even thirty seconds of a song about tractors might be preferable to the scraps of conversation and static that Victor was arranging for their morning playlist. Finally Mycroft smacked his hand away, pushing the boy back into the back seat where he belonged and turning the radio off in finality.
"It's only a five minute drive, we don't even need music." Mycroft mumbled, gripping the wheel a bit tighter before fumbling with his tie.
"Silence is awkward, Mycroft." Victor complained.
"Well, what do you want to talk about?" Mycroft wondered, glancing briefly at the boy with the help of the rear view mirror. Victor slumped a bit farther back into his seat, shrugging his shoulders as if he really had nothing to suggest.
"We can talk about what happens to little boys who don't put on their seatbelts, how about that?" Mycroft suggested.
"I'm not a little boy!" Victor snapped, to which Mycroft chuckled.
"Perhaps not now." He agreed at last. "Though your attitude makes it hard to determine."
"You're both children." Sherlock growled, effectively shutting both of their mouths. The only sound to follow was the clicking of Victor's seatbelt, which made just one corner of Mycroft's mouth upturn in appreciation. Sherlock took this time to examine the side of his face, pulling down the visor mirror and examining his complexion thoroughly. It didn't look nearly as green today, more purple really. Perhaps that was a sign of healing? He detested the mark, not only did it make him look weak but it also made him look ugly. How could anyone appreciate his defined cheekbones when there was a blotch so noticeable? Times like this made him wish he had a sister to steal makeup from, so as to put his face back to normal and return to his usual radiance. Besides, the mark made it only ever more obvious of his defeat. It was the story that could not stop being told, and with each notice of his wound the gossip only grew more fanciful! From the corner of his eye Sherlock could see the school approaching, and so he shut the mirror away and arranged his backpack onto his lap. Mycroft pulled up alongside the curve, leaving the car running so that the engine could putter and purr for all of the passing students. Sherlock kicked open the door and spilled out onto the sidewalk, grumbling for a moment as he adjusted his backpack and waited for Victor to join him.
"Have a good day at school boys." Mycroft called out of the open window, trying to be as obnoxious as he could.
"And you have a good day at work!" Victor responded, being the cheerful little kiss up he was. This at least drew out a smile from Mycroft, though upon realizing that Sherlock had nothing more to say he drove off, leaving the two in a cloud of dust that had been kicked up by his quickly accelerating tires.
"He's so obnoxious." Sherlock complained with a sigh, starting his way into the school whether Victor intended to follow or not. As he made his way through the school, Sherlock found that his locked had been compromised by a lingering presence, a girl who seemed to be trying to poke a note through the vent. Sherlock's face paled; though he continued on to try to stop her in the act. He had grown used to these strange female admirers, some more bold than others. It was always a bit awkward telling them to go away, but it was better to crush their spirits more rapidly. Lingering hope always carved a much deeper wound. As Sherlock approached the girl stood up, noticing him with a strange look of surprise and relief.
"Sherlock, oh good!" she exclaimed, giving him a very wide smile filled with braces with blue brackets.
"Molly Hooper, what can I do for you?" Sherlock wondered with a rather tired voice, fully aware that Victor was lingering close behind his right shoulder.
"Well, I wanted to give you this, but I suppose it can be a verbal request. I thought I had missed you, and wouldn't have time to ask." Molly admitted in some embarrassment. Sherlock stayed quiet, which prompted her to continue after a moment's pause.
"I'm trying to get in some new pieces for the newspaper, and was wondering if you had time during study hour to talk about the upcoming play?"
"I suppose I have time. But you could interview someone else, like Jeanette..."
"Or Victor!" Victor suggested from behind. Molly grew a bit nervous, as if she didn't like to say no directly to someone's face.
"Well, I suppose I could. But since you're sort of the face of the department, I thought..."
"I understand." Sherlock agreed, cutting her off before her rationalization got out of hand.
"Wonderful!" Molly exclaimed with a little smile. "If you could just head over to the newspaper office, it's over near the faculty lunchroom."
"I know where the newspaper office is." Sherlock muttered tiredly.
"It's the only room with newspaper written on the door." Victor added in a bit obviously.
"Excellent! Well then, I'll see you then?" Molly asked with a hopeful little grin.
"That you will." Sherlock agreed. "Now if you'll excuse us, the bell's about to ring." 

Study hour was the strange making of the school, a time block when half of the school was in the cafeteria and the other half was in the classrooms dedicating their time to homework. It was a creation which ensured that the entire high school did not fill up the lunch room to the brim, and it worked out fairly well for those who liked to fool around and do no homework. However, for studious boys like Sherlock, he found study hour to be a rather tedious event. He could never concentrate through the wild card games and whispering gossip, sometimes to the point where he would excuse himself down to the library to avoid any loud conversations. What little work he had ever done throughout the hour was never up to par with his usual quality, and he usually had to go back and start it all over by the time he got home. Thankfully Molly Hooper's invitation got him out of his assigned classroom, one which was filled almost entirely with jocks. Only a sparse few of his own kind were intermingled within, though they were the quiet sort, the ones who feared Sherlock even more than they did John. It was a lonely hour (not even an hour, mind you, maybe closer to forty five minutes) and Sherlock usually spent it with his earbuds in, playing computer games on his laptop. The hallways were silent, and as he walked he could hear his shoes scuffing against the tile floors. The faculty lunchroom seemed to be the only one with foreseeable activity, for there were teachers coming and going with their lunches in hand, subjected to the same parameters as the students were when it came to pathetic packed lunches. Being the good student he was, Sherlock gave them each a smile. He was one of the favorites throughout the school, at least in the eyes of the faculty. This was due almost entirely to his passive nature, as well as his tremendously high grades. That and, well, perhaps he was a little bit of a kiss up. But the teachers were more likely to boost his grades, or to grade less strictly, if they were generally fond of him! It was all a game, a complex game of dedication and good manners, and the results brought him to the top of the class each and every time. The newspaper office stood just to the side of the lunchroom, as promised by Molly Hooper, and it remained to be the most useless room in the whole of the building. Sherlock had been in there once before, interviewing about his theater award when he had won as a freshman, and remembered it being no bigger than a broom closet, perhaps converted from one after the insistence of Molly Hooper. Sherlock opened the door a bit hesitantly; worried that he might hit Molly if she was standing too close to the door. As he expected, the room was very small, with walls that he may very well be the span of his arms. There were two chairs set up next to the door, separated from the back half of the closet by a cloth screen that might have been used in the nurse's office to provide the patients their privacy. From the back of the closet Sherlock could hear typing, as if Molly Hooper's fingers were flying wildly on a keyboard. Just as he was about to announce his presence he got beat to it, for there was another thing hidden in this windowless room, another aspect he had not entirely counted on.
"Sherlock!" John Watson rose to his feet, quite like a gentleman would when a lady had arrived at his table. He had been hidden in the shadowy corner, seated in the small waiting room as if waiting for Molly's full attention. Sherlock recoiled, taking almost two full steps backwards until his back hit the wall, his bruise blaring up with pain as it recognized its maker.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat, now wishing that he had left the door ajar so as to give himself a more accessible escape route. Who knew if John was feeling violent today, who knew if he was looking for a punching bag to start hitting around? Sherlock shivered nervously, never liking the full attention of those hazel eyes.
"I'll give you one guess as to what I'm doing in the newspaper office." John muttered jokingly. Sherlock wasn't in the mood for jokes, and kept his mouth shut. "I'm being interviewed."
"No, I'm being interviewed. Molly Hooper asked me to come here this morning." Sherlock insisted.
"Well, she asked me yesterday." John defended, holding his ground as if this was going to turn into a turf war.
"Perhaps she was mistaken then." Sherlock decided with a little frown. "Besides, I'm sure I could predict how you would answer anyway. You can scurry along, I'll be sure to tell her that your team is strong, motivated, block head stupid, and excited to shed some blood."
"Very nice of you, Sherlock. Really says a lot about your respect for athletes." John grumbled, sinking back down into his chair as he realized his hospitality would not be matched. Sherlock stayed where he was, nervously against the wall and watching John's every move. He knew that it would be a rather inopportune time for a fight, though who knows with John? He had an aggressive spirit, and would probably be willing to throw down in Molly Hooper's closet office if provoked. For a moment it was silent, and Sherlock sunk his hands into his pockets to try to relax. John was sitting tame in his chair, perhaps willing to coexist if Sherlock would stop provoking him. Well, that could be arranged. Sherlock didn't have anything farther to say.