Disclaimer: I don't really know anything about how British universities work, or what their campuses are like, or anything, so I'm certain there are problems with this story. I modeled Sherlock and John's university after the ones I've been to in America, so you'll have to try to forgive the discrepancies and mistakes. Thanks :)
Not betaed. Also I don't own Sherlock, obviously. :/
Even if someone offered him one million pounds, John would not be able to recall the last time he felt well-rested. This was the fourth all-nighter he had pulled in the last fortnight, and he was entirely fed up. The week of final exams was approaching in an ominous, inexorable way. John just had to keep reminding himself that it would all be over in just six more days, and then he would be on holiday until the New Year, when the next term would begin.
He sighed, pushing away his laptop for a moment and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.
It'll all be over soon, he told himself.
A sudden, sharp knock on the door of his flat made him jump. He realized as he stood and headed for the door that he had been dozing off. Maybe it was time for some more coffee...
"Yeah?" John asked drowsily, swinging the door to his flat open. Who on earth would be visiting at two in the bloody morning?
Before him stood a young man, about his age, with bright green eyes and brown curly hair. After a moment, John recognized him as the boy who rented the flat above him. Sherlock, that's right, that's his name, he remembered. The two had hardly spoken before, and all John really knew about the other boy was that they went to the same university and he played the violin - quite beautifully sometimes, quite not at others - at random times throughout the day and night.
The dark-haired boy just stood there in the doorway, his sparkling green eyes a bit wild. It occurred to John that he should probably speak. "Sher... Sherlock?" he asked, stifling a yawn. "What's-"
"I need all your coffee."
"Pardon...?"
"I'm out of coffee. I need yours."
More awake at the mention of coffee, John bit back a smirk as Sherlock brushed past him. The utter nerve of this kid... "Um... okay. Help yourself, by all means."
Sherlock didn't reply to the sarcastic remark, just went about pouring ground coffee beans into John's coffee maker.
"Sherlock?" John asked again. "No offense, but why are you barging in and stealing all my caffeine? We've spoken all of three times, ever, I think."
"I have an essay to finish."
"It's past two in the bloody morning. Can't you do it when, oh I don't know, the sun is out?"
Sherlock glanced up, eyes amused. "You're one to talk. This looks to be, what? Your second all-nighter this week? Besides, sunshine is for losers."
John laughed. Judging from Sherlock's pale skin, it looked like he firmly believed in and practiced that. "Fine," John chuckled. "But don't drink quite all of it. I need some too."
Sherlock smirked at him. "Mind if I stay here then? At least while it brews?"
"Not at all."
Two hours later, John felt shaky. He stopped typing and looked at his hands, which were twitching slightly.
"Sherlock, I think I'm dying."
His newly-found study companion, who'd stayed long after the coffee was brewed, paused in his own work to look up. He scanned John for barely a second before chuckling. "Nonsense. You've just ingested too high a concentration of caffeine in the past twelve hours or so. It'll work its way out of your system in a few hours. I just don't recommend drinking any more coffee until tonight, at the earliest. Otherwise, I'm sure you'll be fine."
John nodded. "Good to know." He leaned back and stretched. "When is your first class?"
"Eight. This essay is due then, so if we could dispense with this small talk, that would be wonderful."
"Well," John huffed, though he was grinning. "I guess that's fair."
Sherlock looked up quickly, and going off his widened eyes he had mistaken John's words for irritation. "Sorry, I suppose that was rude."
"No, it's fine," John replied, still grinning. "Seriously. I shouldn't be making get-to-know-you conversation during finals week. Rubbish timing."
Sherlock stopped halfway through a word, it seemed, and looked back up once again. "You... you want to... get to know me?"
John frowned. Something in Sherlock's tone set off alarm bells in John's head. "Why wouldn't I? You seem interesting, not to mention brilliant."
Sherlock ducked his head again. "That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
He kept his gaze down. "It's not important."
John stared at him, perplexed and perhaps - rather inexplicably - concerned. Sherlock was hiding something, something about himself that he didn't want to tell John. This strange yet interesting boy clearly had secrets. Shaking his head, John turned back to his laptop, reminding himself he too had plenty of work to do before the sun rose and classes began. He could puzzle out the mystery of his neighbor later.
Ugh. Finals week was hell.
The next night, at nearly midnight, John was finishing studying for his biology exam. He decided not to stay up through the night this time, because he was genuinely beginning to worry it might kill him if he did not get some substantial sleep.
He was settling down in bed when there was, once again, a sharp rapping on his door.
"Bloody hell..." John muttered, swinging his legs out of bed and standing. "Who on earth...?"
He opened the door and was about to thoroughly scold whoever had the audacity to disturb him, when-
"Ah, John, excellent." Sherlock swept in, as if this were unsurprising, as if he did this all the time. "You're still awake. I hoped as much."
"Sherlock..." John moaned. "If you're out of coffee again, I swear..."
"Oh, I didn't run out again, no. I just haven't bought anymore yet. Besides, yours is better." Sherlock, in a manner annoyingly reminiscent of last night, was back at John's coffee maker.
"Yeah, well, whatever," John sighed and walked past Sherlock, heading back toward his bedroom. "I'm going to bed. And honestly, you really should too. It's not healthy to stay up for two nights in a row."
Sherlock met his eyes. "You don't want to join me in studying again?" If John were thinking straight - which, considering his sleep deprivation might not be likely - he might think that Sherlock looked disappointed.
"No, not tonight. Sorry," John yawned widely. "But you are welcome to commandeer the table in the sitting room as long as you want."
Sherlock blinked. "Alright. Thank you."
John smiled. "And maybe try to get some sleep, yeah?"
"Doubtful," Sherlock replied, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "Goodnight, John."
"Night, Sherlock." John headed off to bed, strangely glad Sherlock seemed so comfortable in a near-stranger's flat, enough so that he came back twice and wanted to stay and study with John.
Once back in bed, he fell asleep to the sounds of coffee brewing and papers rustling in the next room. Hopefully, he thought an instant before he fell asleep, Sherlock would get some sleep too... It couldn't be good for him to pull two all-nighters in a row...
The next morning, John was in the midst of heading out the door for his second final when he came to an abrupt halt in his sitting room. Sherlock was still there, but he was dead to the world on John's sofa, surrounded by papers and his laptop, which was still open, asleep just like its owner. John bit back a smile. His odd neighbor was unconventional and seemed to lack boundaries entirely, but something about the boy made John want to get to know him. He was fascinating in a rather inexplicable way.
However, now was not the time to solve the riddles of Sherlock Holmes, so John tossed a blanket over the slumbering boy, then headed out the door to get this wretched exam over with. Maybe he could properly talk to his... friend(?) when it was over.
As it turned out, John did not see Sherlock again for the entire rest of the week. He kept waiting for the boy to barge in again and steal what little remained of his supply of coffee, but he never did. John never caught sight of him on campus, or in the nearby libraries or shops, or even in their own building. It was as if he had vanished, like a ghost. John could not help but feel disappointed, and he had to wonder if by rejecting Sherlock's request to study together a second time, he had destroyed his chance of having any sort of relationship with the other student. Of course, that made no sense; Sherlock had seemed accepting and at ease with John's decision to sleep rather than study, so the avoidance couldn't be because of that.
So what was going on?
John survived his finals, barely, and headed back into the countryside for the winter holiday, where his parents' cooking and all the comforts of not having to do one's own laundry awaited him.
He'd not seen Sherlock when he had left the flat, suitcase in hand. It had been over a week since John had heard the violin, and he was starting to worry. Who just disappeared off the face of the earth like that? Especially when it seemed like he and John had been becoming something slightly more than acquaintances?
As the next week went by, and the holidays approached, John found himself thinking about Sherlock more and more. In the forefront of his mind was the thing Sherlock had said the first night of studying.
"You... you want to... get to know me?"
It had confused John at the time, but now it worried him, and made him a bit sad too. What sort of life did a person have to have to think, honestly, that he wasn't worth knowing?
John knew he had a protective nature, he always had. That nature was why making the choice to study medicine had been so easy for him. Still, this worry - which was bordering on obsessive - made no sense. He didn't even know Sherlock. They had had all of one night together, a handful of brief exchanges before that, and beyond what he had gleaned during those instances, John knew next to nothing about his unusual neighbor. He didn't even know what Sherlock was studying. So why was he so hung up on the boy's apparent lack of self-esteem? Why did he so desperately want to know Sherlock?
By the time Boxing Day arrived, John was sure he was insane. For the first time in his life, he was excited for the school term to begin again. He found himself sick of the countryside, sick of doing nothing, sick of not having his coffee stolen by a curly-haired madman.
It'll all be over soon, he told himself at least once a day.
School was set to resume the next day, John had arrived back at his flat, and there was still no sign of Sherlock that he could discern. Sitting in front of John's door, however, was a new package of his preferred coffee brand, a note taped to it:
Happy Christmas, John. Keep this around, as I'll likely be stealing it in the future. -SH
John bit back a grin. It seemed Sherlock hadn't been avoiding him, just busy. Maybe they could still get to know one another, especially since the note implied Sherlock would be stopping by again sometime.
So the next morning, John set out in an unusually cheerful mood, considering he had three classes in a row. Sherlock had to be back in town too, so he was somewhere on campus.
His good mood evaporated between his second and third class, quite without warning.
He spotted Sherlock, standing between the campus library and the sciences building. This would not have been a concerning sight, except for the three taller, older, much more intimidating boys surrounding him. Something about the body language he was seeing sent a twinge of worry crept through John, and he slowly approached the group, trying to stay unnoticed.
"Oh please," Sherlock was saying. "You expect me to take you seriously when you use such insipid, trite, overused comebacks? It's like trying to communicate with a gorilla."
"Shut up, you little freak!"
Another boy stepped closer, so that Sherlock was pinned against the wall of the library. "You tell us everything you said to them, or I'll get it out of you another way." As he spoke, he pulled back his fist and sent it slamming into Sherlock's cheek. The smaller boy gave a gasp and slumped down against the wall, hands lifting to defend his face from further blows.
The other two thugs joined in, landing punches on Sherlock's thin body. Verbal abuse flew as well, and Sherlock was snapping insults right back. While he was mentally more than a match for all three, he was clearly at a great physical disadvantage.
John's legs unfroze, and he stepped forward, ignoring the impulsiveness and insanity of the action. All he knew was Sherlock was bleeding in front of him and he had to stop it.
"Oi!" he called, shoving one thug out of the way with one hand, making him stumble in surprise. "I'd say he's had enough, wouldn't you?"
Sherlock's three assailants rounded on John at once, glaring or cracking their bloodied knuckles. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide. "John?"
John didn't reply to Sherlock, just faced down the bullies coolly. "Leave him alone."
The first bloke who had spoken snorted with laughter. "What are you doing to do about it, shorty?"
"You really think three against one is fair? I mean, obviously intellectually he has you beat several times over, but physically this is completely unfair. Why don't you leave him alone?"
"What are you, his bodyguard? This isn't your business," the boy, apparently the alpha, sneered.
"No, I'm... I'm his..." He glanced at Sherlock, who nodded significantly. "I'm his boyfriend," John blurted, hoping he wouldn't turn red.
The thugs laughed and cooed mockingly. "Aw, you've come to save your sweetheart?"
"Maybe I have. He was late for our coffee date," John improvised. "So why don't you three run along before I make you regret it?"
The alpha laughed. "You think you can take all three of us at once?"
"No," John replied, because it was true. "But I can take you on your own."
Just as the alpha boy stepped forward to attack, fist raised, John slammed the heel of his palm forward and up into his nose. He felt a satisfying crack, and the boy howled and staggered backward, clutching his bleeding nose and crashing into the other two boys, who staggered as they tried to catch him.
John dove down and grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulling him to his feet. "Come on, darling," he muttered as the two of them fled, the shouts of the boys echoing after them as they gave chase. John and Sherlock managed to stay ahead of all of them, though John was beginning to worry that they wouldn't be able to keep their lead for more than a few minutes. He was already starting to gasp for air.
Luckily, Sherlock seemed to sense that the chase was futile. He reached out and grabbed John's arm. "This way," he hissed urgently. John followed, trusting blindly, as Sherlock tugged him into a small gap in front of the maths building, where there was a small space between one of the columns and the brick wall. Sherlock shoved John into the gap, then crammed himself in next to him.
"We should be alright here," Sherlock whispered. "I've had to find some good hiding places in my time here."
John nodded, breathing hard. He could hardly speak from lack of air, so he and Sherlock stayed silent - or as silent as they could - as rapid feet and angry grumblings passed their hiding spot and faded into the distance. In unison, they exhaled in relief.
It was only then that John remembered he should probably call for help, and so he scrambled for his phone. "I should have done this ages ago..." he cursed himself.
"John-"
"Shh. I'm calling the police."
"No, don't-"
"Don't be ridiculous. You just got beat up."
"John, please!" Sherlock snatched for the phone, though John tugged it out of reach. "It's not worth it."
John lowered the phone and turned to look, to really look, at the battered form of his friend for the first time since he'd pulled the other boy to his feet in that alley. While John had mostly gotten his breath back in the last minute or so, Sherlock's chest was still heaving, and his arm was wrapped around his waist. There was a shallow cut on his cheek, and it looked - though it was hard to tell because his head was bowed - as if Sherlock's eyes were full of tears. "I don't want any trouble," he whispered.
John sighed and put away the phone, knowing he would regret this later. "Sherlock, if we don't go to the police, they will."
"They won't," Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sure of it." He looked down and sniffed.
John felt his chest tighten as he watched Sherlock trying to hold in his tears. "Hey," he murmured. "It's okay. They're gone, and I'm not going to let them hurt you again."
He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and tugged him closer. Sherlock's posture was stiff and he refused to relax. John sighed and pulled back after a moment, since clearly his efforts to comfort him weren't working. "Hey," he murmured again, waiting until Sherlock met his eyes. "Want to tell me what that was all about? Like why they attacked you? Or why you're sure they won't call the police?"
Sherlock ducked his head and wiped at his eyes, also smudging the blood further by accident, which in turn reminded John that he was bleeding. He sighed and replaced his hand on Sherlock, this time on his arm. "Sherlock," he murmured. "Talk to me. I want to help you."
Sherlock hesitated for a long while, then finally glanced at John, meeting his gaze for a moment, then sighing as if resigned. "I'm fairly certain they're drug dealers," he began, his voice still just a bit shaky. "They've been tormenting me for ages, because they saw me as an easy target. After all, it's easy to pick on the skinny freak who can't keep his mouth shut when he should," he said bitterly.
"You're not a freak," John interrupted. "Don't say that." He had seen enough of Sherlock to know that while he was a bit quirky, maybe a bit odd, he was not a freak. Just a smart, quiet, young loner.
Sherlock sighed, looking utterly disbelieving and still terribly upset. "Anyway, ever since they started bullying me, I've been deducing them, investigating, trying to find something to make them stop. The last week of last term I spent several hours in the evenings tailing them. I have evidence now. I just didn't expect them to retaliate against my interference so... violently."
John frowned, confused. He now knew why Sherlock had been mysteriously absent during finals week, but some things still didn't add up. "I still don't get why you won't call the police. I get why they might not want to, considering that explaining what happened would probably involve them saying why they were talking to you in the first place and so implicating them as drug dealers. But you could at least tell the police you were attacked, right?"
"John, I don't need to call the police," Sherlock crossed his arms.
"Why not? I'd say your cuts and bruises say differently."
"Because I already did. There's a formal investigation into them now."
John blinked. "Oh. Well."
Sherlock expression was brighter by now, and he even smirked at John's surprise. John, though encouraged by that, still didn't want to let it go quite yet. "Don't you want to tell the police you got hurt though?"
He shook his head. "I don't want to make trouble. Besides, they'll get convicted for many worse things than what they just did to me." He looked over at John. "Though I can't promise they'll lie about what you did to them. You might get in trouble."
"Then I'll tell the truth, that I was protecting you," John said earnestly. "Speaking of truth and lies, sorry about the whole 'I'm his boyfriend' thing..."
To his surprise, Sherlock laughed. "It's fine." It seemed mad to consider, but John thought that he might be blushing. He was suddenly struck by how young Sherlock looked. Now that he thought about it, John realized Sherlock didn't look nearly old enough to be in university...
"How old are you?" he asked before he could stop himself.
"Fifteen."
"What?" John exclaimed. "And you're in my year?"
Sherlock definitely blushed that time. He nodded, ducking his head. John smiled. "You really are brilliant, aren't you?" he murmured, a hint of wonder seeping into his words.
"Not brilliant enough to know when to keep my mouth shut around thugs, apparently," he replied.
John smirked. "We should get you back to the flat, get you cleaned up."
There were some minor protestations from Sherlock, who seemed reluctant to impose upon John, but in the end they both ended up back at John's flat anyway.
John got to practice some of his medical skills then, cleaning the cut on Sherlock's cheek and pressing ice packs to the bruises on his torso. Sherlock was silent, avoiding John's gaze. As John worked, he pondered his neighbor's behavior; he was one moment smiling and vulnerable and the next was shy and distant. It was as if Sherlock didn't know what to make of John, or how to be a friend.
"There," he said softly when he finished wiping away the blood on Sherlock's face.
"Thank you," Sherlock murmured. His cheeks were pink again, and John couldn't help but notice how endearing the color was on him.
"So." John leaned back against the back of the sofa. "Ready to go?"
"Go?" Sherlock looked up, startled. He looked like a baby deer in headlights. "Go where?"
"Coffee date," John smirked. "We're boyfriends, remember?"
Sherlock looked confused for a split-second, then seemed things seem to click, and he giggled. "Okay."
Laughing, John stood and pulled Sherlock along with him.
Several weeks later...
Sherlock was plucking at his violin absentmindedly, letting his mind wander. Which was a nice change from slaving away at his intense, chemistry-ridden workload.
After that disaster of the autumn term, things had vastly improved. He had started his days at university looking over his shoulder for the students who had decided they didn't like him, but now he was spending his days in cafes and coffee shops with John. Studying, teasing, laughing until their sides ached. It was the university life he had never really expected to have.
John had sufficiently intimidated everyone who even thought to - in his words - mess with his little genius. So now, Sherlock was just one of the many faces in the crowds, even part of the rowdy groups of boys in the nearby Pret. He even was in with the football team thanks to John.
Sherlock's internal reflections were interrupted when the door to his flat swung open. "Hey, you," John's voice called.
"Hey," Sherlock grinned as John flopped onto the sofa beside him. "What's that, then?"
"For you," John smiled, handing over a cup which smelled tantalizingly of coffee, chocolate, and caramel. "Though you'd want to have one of your own this time, since last time you drank all of mine."
Sherlock gave him an only partially-apologetic look. The caramel mocha hadn't ever been something Sherlock had thought to try, being previously addicted to black coffee or various teas, but John had pointed out it was a way to appease his need for caffeine and his sweet tooth simultaneously. The previous day, Sherlock had ended up drinking more of John's drink than his own, having fallen in love with the mocha instantly.
"You got some of it," Sherlock chuckled. "Stop being so dramatic."
"You're one to talk," John laughed, nudging him in the side. "Drama queen."
They fell into easy conversation then, sipping their coffees and giggling, until they got down to business. It had become routine to go to each other's flats to talk and study in the evenings after classes and John's football practice. And of course, after their finals week last term, coffee had been a key component to that.
This evening, Sherlock was testing John on anatomy terms. Of course, John was physically incapable of taking anything seriously for more than thirty minutes, and so the anatomy identifications quickly became a poke fight, which quickly evolved into more of a wrestling/pillow fight.
"What are you, six?" Sherlock gasped breathlessly between giggles, trying desperately to fend off John's pillow. He was pinned on the sofa, John practically straddling his thighs, trying to press his cushion onto Sherlock's face.
"Mentally, yes, you know this," John grinned a bit wickedly. "It's a study break, that's all."
"You are ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled, then swung his leg up and over John's hip and managed to flip them, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Lucky for them, the other pillows had fallen before, so the landing was soft.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John lifted his head as they tried to disentangle themselves. "That was unexpected."
"Agreed," Sherlock sat up, rubbing his elbow. "I can't normally do that, you being a football player and all."
"It was impressive," John grinned, brushing his riotous curls out of his face for him. "You've been practicing, haven't you?"
Sherlock nodded. Ever since the encounter with the drug dealers (whom Sherlock hadn't heard from since), John had insisted on instructing Sherlock on some basic self-defense. Apparently when the older boy had been a kid, he had taken classes and still remembered some of the moves.
Sherlock was rubbish at it, being more inclined to things like violin or dancing than throwing people to the ground. But he had indeed been practicing, which was clearly leading to pleasant results when it came to scuffling.
"Well that was really good. I'm just glad you didn't slam my head down." John climbed back onto the sofa, the pillow fight clearly at an end.
Sherlock joined him, leaning against his side. "That would be a little rude wouldn't it?" John smiled, but Sherlock continued. "After all, you bring me delicious coffees."
John laughed, a mock-offended expression on his face, and shoved at Sherlock, who just bounced back into John's side. Both chuckling, they sat in relative silence for a few minutes, until John sighed and sat up.
"I should get a shower," he groaned. "And then study some more."
"Right, because you got so much accomplished so far," Sherlock laughed. "You're so focused."
"Oh, shut it, you," John beamed at him. "But I really should go downstairs."
"Alright, fine." Sherlock tried to shake his head disapprovingly, but he was smiling. "I should get some work done as well."
"See you in the morning," he ruffled Sherlock's curls, their usual goodbye, then stood.
"I'll bring coffee then," Sherlock called as John was partway down the stairs. "What kind do you want?"
"Surprise me!" John's voice had a smile in it as he shouted back. Sherlock grinned.
He went about replacing the pillows on the sofa, listening to John's door downstairs closing. He'd have to plot for their next coffee test this evening...
"Surprise," a voice came from the door. Sherlock tensed. That wasn't John's voice, but it was familiar. And not in a good way.
He turned and came face to face with one of the thugs who had attacked him, back on the first day of the new term, the day John had come to his rescue. Sherlock searched his files for the boy's name.
"Sebastian," he growled, crossing his arms. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I don't recall inviting you inside."
"Oh, you didn't," Sebastian replied, approaching menacingly. "But then, I didn't invite your freakish little self to mess with my operation."
Sherlock chuckled. "You act as if you're some great criminal mastermind. You're nothing more than a lowly drug dealer. And you aren't even good at it. It barely took ten minutes to figure out where you were cooking the stuff. I expected more, to be perfectly honest."
Sebastian didn't bother replying with words, but instead took a swing. Sherlock ducked, diving out of the way. Sebastian ended up knocking over a lamp, shattering the glass base. He snatched up a shard and advanced on Sherlock, who stumbled on the one pillow he had forgotten to pick up. His head slammed painfully on the hardwood floor as he fell, and he cried out as Sebastian threw himself at him.
The larger boy growled and pulled back his fist. Sherlock tried his best to shrink to nothing, wishing he were invisible.
But then he remembered the beginning of the term, how John had come to his side and saved him, facing three boys this size without even blinking in fear. Sherlock had been rather in awe of his courage. So who would he be if he didn't at least try to do the same?
He swung his leg up and around, and threw Sebastian off of him. In doing so, the other boy's head hit the edge of the table. Sherlock could tell he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
"Sherlock!"
And then John was there, arms around him, pulling him into a sitting position. "Are you okay?"
Sherlock nodded, though even he could feel himself shaking. He pressed closer into the other boy, trying to calm his racing heart. "John."
"Talk to me, Sherlock," John sounded as frightened as Sherlock felt. "You alright?"
"I think so."
John cursed, sliding a hand down Sherlock's back. "I should have stayed just a bit longer. I should have been here..."
"I had it sorted," Sherlock replied, a bit ashamed at how unsteady his voice was, but unable to help it.
"I see that," John sat back so he could look at Sherlock's face, his eyes full of fear and concern. His gaze roved all over Sherlock, and then his eyes widened. "Sherlock, you're bleeding!"
Sherlock looked down and saw a scarlet stain seeping through his sleeve from a shallow gash running down the length of his arm from inner elbow almost to his wrist. "Dammit!" he breathed, tensing at the sight of the blood.
"It's okay, hang on, hang on," John's voice was deadly serious, his doctor voice, as he jumped up and dashed downstairs to his own flat. Sherlock scrambled for his phone and dialed his contact with Scotland Yard, a detective sergeant named Lestrade. He was fairly sensible, and almost intelligent, which was more than Sherlock could say about the rest of the Yard. He even thought the two of them would make a good team in some years once Sherlock was out of school.
He quickly related what had happened to Sebastian, then hung up, knowing the thug would shortly be taken away. John returned, panting, his first aid kit in his hands.
Sherlock watched John's face as he cleaned and bandaged the cut, fascinated by his focus and intensity. It was only after several minutes that Sherlock realized that John was only wearing his pants. Evidently he had been nearly about to shower. The young detective didn't need anyone to tell him that his cheeks were as scarlet as his wound. John just smirked at him.
Half an hour later, during which Lestrade had arrived and again departed, taking the groggy vengeful Sebastian with him, John finally seemed to relax. He was sprawled out on Sherlock's sofa, looking drained but somehow wide awake at the same time. He met Sherlock's gaze, then beckoned him over. Sherlock went, letting John hug him, something he had been allowing on an increasingly-regular basis.
"You were so brave," John whispered, fingers pressing down gently on Sherlock's bandaged arm.
And despite his still pounding heartbeat, Sherlock couldn't help but smile. John was proud of him. Because he'd managed to be brave.
They lay in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock noticed something on the floor. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few moments, then realization set in. The last sips of his caramel mocha, forgotten thanks to the spontaneous pillow fight, was spilled all over the floor under the table, probably thanks to the battle with Sebastian.
"John," Sherlock gasped, sitting up.
"What?" John tensed, eyes going wide. "What's wrong?"
"That idiot made me spill my coffee!"
John looked at him for a moment in astonishment, then burst out laughing. Sherlock grinned at the way his eyes lit up, and couldn't help joining in.
As usual, thanks for reading! I feel like this story might be a bit rubbish overall but I needed to write because I'm really stressed and overwhelmed right now and needed an escape (plus I've been reading tons of teen!lock as another coping mechanism and wanted to write my own). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this somewhat despite it probably being awful.
Next story: Dragon-riders :)