Not that i'm expecting anyone to wear full neon everyday, but he just is 'black' all the time. Shirts, dark pants scrap the obviously expensive worn blue jeans, black bracelets, everything is black to contrast his white skin... scrap the neon underwear that peeks out but who's looking?
I'm not infatuated with him either. I'm not. Not in his cleverly rude attitude, disregard to the teachers just to be top of the class, his damn trench coat. That fucking coat gets me. It's not even cold outside, why do you insist to wear it all the way into the building just to slowly glide it off your shoulders, catching it a millisecond before it hits the ground. Why? No sense, none.
That Molly girl, the really nice one who helped me with biology once, she always hits on him, this Sherlock punk. Sometimes, he points out her bad hair days, sometimes it's her lipstick, but she keeps coming to him! Doesn't she know? Just because he agreed once to get coffee with you, Molly, doesn't mean he wanted you... He just likes coffee. Black, two sugars not that i'm paying any attention.
His favorite words? "Shut up." "Idiots, all of you." "I wouldn't go as far as psychopath." "Your name is John."
... Wait... that last one...
"Hm?" Blinking rapidly, I find I was in a daydream. I also find the prick I was 'not' daydreaming about, staring at me.
"John, John Watson. That's your name." This punk looks at me, telling me 'again' that my name is John like I don't know. I'm sitting, just sitting, and here he is looming over me, casting his obstructive tall shadow over my books. God damnit.
"Always has been." Sarcastically, I hint at him that maybe he isn't welcome. That maybe his attempt at a handshake just now with his long fingers stuck together and thumb poked out, palm ready to embrace mine, wasn't needed.
He swallows at me, rubbing his hand almost disgustedly (like the thought of having to touch me was repulsing) on his tight black shirt... any shorter of a shirt and you'd see that pale milky, 'unhealthy' white stomach. "Right." He draws out the word, putting much too much emphasize on his vowels. God.
"Anything I can help you with." I find it hard to catch eyes with him, maybe he's looking over at the clock? Class is starting soon.
"Actually, I'm having a gathering of people at my place..." Lower and lower, his voice just deepens. I know he's doing it on purpose. Why else?
"A gathering of people?" He's such a goth, "It's called a party." I smile at him, the pretentious ass.
"Technically it's not a party if you don't at least have music and food." His multicolored eyes, alien eyes, just look at me until I understand. Sherlock, so he threw either sex parties or drug parties. Either way, it's still a party. "... Which I won't have either unless you hook up your phone through our speakers... I don't mind."
I begin to wonder, is this very male guy propositioning me? For sexual favors? "Why? Why did you even come over here? We don't even know one another." A little frustrated, alot frustrated, I tap my hand a little loud on the table.
From the front of the auditorium the clicks of heels of the calculus teacher sound. "I'll meet you after class." His fingers run across my binder, his face already turned away and he just prances off to his seat. Just goes like no big deal. Sure, I have to answer his questions but mind can wait.
So, I spend the lecture being bombarded by my own thoughts. Was Sherlock Holmes, a well known alternative, know-it-all, emo... Was he really trying to get into my pants? A one nighter? I never thought he was into any gender for that matter, but if I had to choose one now, it'd be guys. Not for me, though, for him. Not gay. I'm not gay.
And when the three rings of the bell go off, I hold my breath. I can't move, and if I was going to, I'd be sprinting. I'm not afraid of Sherlock, but i'm not too keen on him flirting with me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him, many rows infront of me, standing, shucking his coat on in one move.
"Fuck." I breath, trying to avoid that gaze of his as he heads my way. I know he's looking at me, walking fast, dashing almost, then he reaches my seat, the room nearly fanned out. "I'm not sure if you do that kind of thing, I mean, it's just a little pot this time." Pot? Pot! Thank god. "We probably wouldn't even see each other if you came. And I'd stay downstairs if you do show up. Baker Street, you'll know, tonight." His skinny fingers tap again on the edge of my table and he thinks he can just go skipping off!
"Wait a fucking a second." I say to his back, seeing him stop to abruptly the icing on the cake. "You didn't answer me at all!"
His head as it turns, reveals his little tug of the mouth, a smile. "Oh, I think we both know why I asked. There's something going on in your head about me, I'm not sure what yet. You may want to kill me or kiss me, befriend me or slit my throat! I was just eager to try finding out what makes you tick, just like everyone else." His hand is mindlessly tugging on some necklace, must be new. Wait, why would a necklace be anything to me? I'm infuriated with him!
"I don't want anything to do with you." I say without much thought, except after the thought I had about his necklace, but besides that... I see him, eyes squinting just a tad and he's calculating me like a machine. "You don't get high much, do you? That's fine, then it'd be splendid if you'd avoid upstairs. It starts whenever you show up." His hand, that fucking hand, lets go of the necklace and just travels down his torso on it's way down. But it was his everloving smirking ass that got me, those bold eyes just dancing on whatever I was doing (probably smoking from hate).
I can't even reply this time as he goes, I just have to let the burn of the low sun through the double doors set me on fire as he exits.
Booming with the circumstances, I call my sister to take my mind off things.