Everyone at uni had a reputation. Fact.
Everyone at uni acted according to their reputation. Not fact.
Everyone at uni was a blasted, withering, bloody idiot. Fact - disputed, currently under observation, results indicating the initial hypothesis was correct.
Sprawled out against the grass, Sherlock debated his options. He could spring up, take each of these cretins out one by one and shame them, sending them running back to their respective girlfriends for pats and mending, or he could lie here until they grew bored and continue about his day. The fact that he was physically fully capable of boxing them into bloody pulps was something that he wanted to keep relatively unknown, as that sort of thing just drew attention to himself and he was at uni to study, not find himself the source of unwanted esteem/censure/hatred/general attention. Distraction was not permissible, and given what the school therapist had indicated (useless, unsolicited information) he would largely be left well enough alone if he kept his mouth shut. He provoked the young men, apparently, with his observations, which indicated neatly that his current predicament was his own fault and he had no one to blame for his rapidly bruising eye than himself.
Well. He didn't quite agree. Thompson should not have been shagging Watson's girlfriend, and they could hardly blame Sherlock for noticing and pointing it out. Obvious, wasn't it? He hadn't even realized he'd mentioned it aloud until Watson turned to him with surprise on his face, and Thompson had vehemently denied the situation, but of course, Sherlock's pride had gotten the better of him. He'd felt challenged, and so he'd stood in the lunch line, gripping his tray between spidery fingers and calmly, blandly related all the details that clearly indicated Thompson's guilt. Generally, that was the part where he was either spat on, hauled outside, or otherwise generally humiliated in front of his peers (or at least the attempt was made; Sherlock rarely gave two shits what his classmates thought of him) and so he braced himself, eyes flicking to the tray to make certain there was nothing that would make a great mess if it was flipped onto his chest.
And the attempt was made, make no mistake, but the boy - Watson - had thrust a hand out, palm in his friend(?)'s chest, and told him to back off. Sherlock had been intrigued for a moment, because he could clearly see anger - clenched jaw, slightly flushed face, tightened muscles at the corners of his eyes, hands flexing at his sides - but it hadn't seemed to be directed at Sherlock. Hm. Curious.
He had flicked his gaze between the two, and when it became apparent nothing else would be said, he wrote it off as the exception that proved the rule. Sherlock had brushed past without further word, chin thrust out slightly as he made his way to his habitual corner table to eat alone, and had been left alone. Of course he watched Watson and Thompson have their tense conversation, and though he was sufficient at reading lips, he almost didn't have to; it was all very obvious by their posture, the duration of the conversation, and the angry way they parted at the end. Watson hadn't even eaten his lunch.
Confrontation with the girlfriend, he supposed. If he was supposed to feel pangs of regret at causing a domestic he didn't, because a relationship that involved two people who weren't honest with one another wasn't much of one at all. He did, however, feel minor annoyance when he was later intercepted on his way to the labs, unceremoniously hauled about by his collar, decked, and thrown down onto the grass.
Expelling a short hiss of a breath, he rose up on his elbows, his scowl dark and mutinous underneath tousled curls. Not his fault, his brain reminded him, and yet he was constantly being blamed. To defend himself, or just wait for the moment to pass? Decisions, decisions-
"Thompson!"
His assailant, bent at the waist and scooping to grab Sherlock once more (much to the pleased cheering of his friends, Sherlock thought waspishly), visibly started. There was the blond again, striding across the grass and toward the collected group with a very set, resigned look on his face. Disappointment, Sherlock thought immediately, already recording and organizing all of the new information that Watson was providing. Anger. Betrayal. Rigid shoulders, tight lips, left hand raised halfway in a move that was not of aggression but could quickly become it.
Thompson looked down into Sherlock's face, expression contorting, and spit in it.
Sherlock jerked his head to the side, more insulted by the puerility behind the act than the spitting itself, but he didn't have much time to be offended by it. His shoulders hit the grass again and he brought a hand up, smearing the filth from his face as best he could, muttering under his breath all the while.
"You lot, all of you, get. This is ridiculous. Ought to be ashamed of yourselves," Watson was adding severely, and he placed both hands against Thompson's shoulders, shoving him back hard. "Thrashing a fellow for being honest because you've been found out. I'm disgusted."
Sherlock watched with dispassion as a collective breath was held, perhaps waiting to see if Thompson would throw a punch at his mate Watson as well, but they were disappointed if that was the desired outcome. One by one they began to wander off, shaking their heads and talking amongst one another, leaving Sherlock alone with his would-be savior.
He was fingering the edge of his eye, annoyed, when Watson dropped himself to the grass beside him and huffed out a breath. "Right bunch of prats. Sorry," he added, leaning over to brush some grass off Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock tensed, leaning away with almost comical swiftness, but it didn't seem to amuse Watson. After a beat of awkward silence, Sherlock said flatly, "You've done your heroic deed, now you might as well scurry off. I've no need of you."
Watson blinked, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows as he considered the other young man. "All right."
After a few more moments of silence, Sherlock inhaled slowly, pinning him with a slightly condescending look. "That means go away."
"I know what it means." Watson shrugged one shoulder, and Sherlock could see the vestiges of anger not only on his face but in the quick jerk of his shrug. "Thanks, by the way."
He was bewildered a moment, though it only showed in a fractional widening of his eyes before he looked away, back to pressing the tips of his fingers around his swelling eye. Needed an ice pack for it. Of course, at this stage, it wouldn't do much good regardless - it was going to swell up and blacken no matter what he did.
He'd always bruised like a sodding banana, which was precisely why he didn't generally allow anyone to land a hit. Calculating the risks on this particular incident, he'd decided that if he let Thompson give him a black eye then the brute would be at least partially satisfied and go about his business, and so he'd considered the temporary pain worth the long-term payoff.
He hadn't counted on Watson having a conscience and, apparently, bearing the burden of everyone else's conscience, too. How dull.
"That's not how people generally respond to a complete stranger disclosing the infidelity of their girlfriend in a public place," he responded critically, tossing Watson a look that implied he didn't believe the sincerity of it for a moment.
Watson laughed, and Sherlock was a little startled again. It wasn't mirthful by any means, but sort of resigned, and the smile that lingered on his mouth was more than a little self-deprecating. "Probably not, but a bloke usually relies on his mates for that kind of thing, and it wasn't likely that Frank was going to fess up, was it? So, thank you. Better I find out sooner rather than later."
At his side, Watson plucked up a fistful of grass, rubbing his fingers together and sprinkling it back over the lawn. With horror, Sherlock realized he was about to launch into a monologue detailing the ups and downs of his relationship - information that was not only irrelevant but boring and ultimately useless to Sherlock - when Watson just sighed again and fully flopped back onto the grass.
"Besides, can't fault a total stranger for being a better mate than the ones I've got. That was bloody amazing, by the way. How you picked all that apart and realized they were, you know, just from... well, just from her stockings."
Uncomfortable with the praise, partially because he still doubted its sincerity but also because he found that he enjoyed the feeling of being praised rather a little too much, Sherlock shifted where he sat. Cautiously, he lowered his hand to the grass, ignoring the throbbing in his eye. Tone clipped, he pointed out, "You're responding very strangely. You ought to feel more betrayed and angry at your girlfriend's infidelity, given that you are a monogamous straight male interested in a long-term relationship."
Watson snorted a laugh again, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. "Ex-girlfriend. And am I supposed to sit here and cry about it? Sure, it hurts, and sure, it bothers me, but facts are facts and I can either get on with things or I can wallow in them. Much rather get on, between you and I."
The explanation wasn't entirely satisfactory, given that Sherlock could plainly see that Watson was more than a little upset still, but he could respect the fact that he didn't want to talk about it. Was grateful, even, because Sherlock certainly didn't want to discuss it.
Despite himself, he was a little bit interested in this young man. He was an aberration from the norm, and Sherlock dearly loved picking apart the strange things to discover how they worked.
After another few moments' silence, he said graciously, "You are welcome. In the future, if I deduce that any of your romantic partners are being unfaithful, I will not hesitate to alert you."
Watson lowered his hand a fraction, peering at Sherlock out of only one eye, and then he grinned and offered it. "Thanks. John Watson."
Sherlock stared at his hand as though unsure of whether he should take it, but John didn't withdraw his. He just waited, patiently, until Sherlock grimaced and slid his hand against John's, giving it a brief and brisk shake, before tucking his hands safely away in his pockets once more. "Sherlock Holmes."
"All right, Sherlock." John sat up fully, elbows braced on his knees, and looked across the lawn. "Want me to walk you back to the nurse?"
Sherlock fairly well bristled. "No. I am quite capable of taking care of myself."
Rather than make a snide comment, John simply rose to his feet, nodded, and smiled. "All right, then. See you around. Take care of that eye."
And with that, John Watson was off, with Sherlock Holmes scowling after him in the distance.
Everyone at uni was a blasted, withering, bloody idiot. Fact - disputed, currently under observation, results indicating the initial hypothesis was correct barring the possible exception of one John Watson.
Results pending.
