"A scarf?"
John Watson was being forced to play seven minutes in heaven; a game he didn't want to play, at a party he didn't want to be at, surrounded by people he didn't want to be surrounded by. There were university students chugging down unfamiliar alcohol mixtures, potheads smoking in the corner with little concerns for the rest of the room, and the rare antisocial person dotted about as they hid from the festivities as best they could.
The party was just beginning to fizzle out (to John's relief), when some idiot from one clique or another bravely suggested seven minutes in heaven, to which (to John's horror) the entire group wholeheartedly accepted. People began to randomly select items from about the vicinity, soon thereafter grabbing random people once the bag was bursting to the brim with objects. Without much of a say in the matter, John had been forced out of his comfortable spot between Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper on one of the cushy sofas and pushed to the front of the room to play, finding his hand forced into a cacophony of odd shapes and textures.
Watching the selected victim with extreme (yet highly secretive) attentiveness from across the room was one of the socially awkward party goers by the name of Sherlock Holmes, a slightly nervous feeling churning in his stomach. This wasn't the first time he'd watched John, oh no. The very first time had to be a good few months ago, when everyone was abuzz with a new rugby player that had won their school their first game in years. Normally, the moody teenager wouldn't give a second thought about some neanderthal sports player, but something about this one peaked his curiosity for one reason or another. Since then, he'd become quite familiar with the rugged man, noticing many mannerisms and quirks that most people would have overlooked without a second thought.
For example, John Watson was raised by an army man, given away by the extreme respect he gave authoritative figures and his unusually good posture for a young adult. He also possessed a strangely old mind for someone of his age, suggesting past struggles that made him sadder yet wiser. And the strangest habit of all, he tended to limp a bit, suggesting a psychosomatic injury from childhood.
Some might call this stalking. Others, such as himself, would consider it observing to ease the boredom.
Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts when John pulled out a navy blue scarf with a faint smell of cigarette smoke and frayed edges. A scarf that, so happened, belong to him.
How the bloody hell did they get his scarf?
"A scarf? Who's this scarf belong to?"
The crowd began to titter to one another, trying to pinpoint who was going in the closet with John Watson, rugby player extraordinaire. Sherlock swallowed back a slight tither of nerves in his throat, forcing himself to stand slowly. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Everyone fell silent, eyes falling on him with mixed emotions; disgust, pity, horror, confusion. John, on the other hand, looked a touch sick, but didn't back out as expected. Instead, he beckoned Sherlock towards the closet, avoiding everyone's eyes as he went.
John was nervous. His heart was pounding, his knees were weak, and his palms were damp. There was no reason for him to be nervous, it was only a stupid game in a stupid closet with a st….a person.
Sherlock Holmes was terrified. He hardly interacted with other people, and the fact that he was now expected to have relations with the one person he actually found interesting made him very uneasy.
The crowd jaunted at them, a few lightly shoving them closer together with cackles. One large boy tripped Sherlock when he wasn't looking, causing the gangly boy to trip into John, tumbling into the closet in a ball of legs and arms. The door slammed shut behind them, with the faint click of a lock as they were trapped inside the close quarters.
Sherlock sat up quickly, detaching himself from John and scooting himself to the other side of the closet. The other boy grunted loudly, glancing over at the other human in the closet with him. With an awkward cough, he spoke, reaching a hand out.
"So erm…hi?"