Sherlock had never planned for anything like this to happen. He'd promised himself when he had started university that he would ignore everything, and well most importantly everyone. He had planned to let the world pass by, whilst he did his experiments, and did the minimal amount of studying he needed to get by. But that promise to himself had all gone downhill exactly two months and three weeks ago, and he'd been distracted from his work ever since. It had become completely omitted; he needed to stop thinking of him, needed to delete him. But he found to his annoyance this was basically impossible.

A 19 year old Sherlock sat in the corner of the pub, for the fourth time this week, swirling the remainder of his beer around the bottom of his pint glass. A drink he'd only become familiar with as of lately, he didn't particularly enjoy it but he had to buy something if he wanted to sit in here. He didn't want everyone to think him weirder than they already did. His eyes were focused on the man at the bar; they were always focused on the man in question. The man in question being the only reason he came to this dive in the first place. He, the man, was with his friends, people who he obviously knew well. Sherlock had become captured by the man exactly two months and three weeks ago. He knew how he held himself around people he knew, around people he didn't know quite as well. How he acted around certain people, how he acted around men and how he acted around women. How long it took him to drink his pint, how long he stayed in the pub for before retiring home to bed. He knew exactly which days he would come along, and which days he would stay well away. The course he was currently on, how much sleep he'd had the night before, if he'd been in bed with anyone the night before. He knew just what made him smile that heart melting smile of his, what made him upset, angry, annoyed, and just about every other emotion under the sun. But possibly the most important detail he didn't know yet was the man's name. He thought it'd be the easiest piece of data he could retrieve, hear it in a conversation, or hear it being shouted over the bar by one of his friends. But no, not once did he hear the man's name uttered, and it was beginning to grate on Sherlock.

He never once dared to actually speak to the man; he thought the 'freak' title would rub off by the time he left school. But it had carried on, it had stuck. The university soon began to refer to him by the cruel nickname, rather than his actual name. Although John was three years ahead of him he would have inevitably heard the nickname, the whole university knew not to go near Sherlock Holmes. So nobody ever did, he was completely fine with this arrangement. He didn't want to have to listen to people's rambles, their problems; he didn't want and was not going to pretend he was something he wasn't in a fruitless attempt of boosting his reputation. This was all until this man, this stupid, perfect, arse of a man. Sherlock hated him.

John was in the pub for the fourth time in a week. The pressure of final exams getting to him, and instead of actually sitting down and studying like he was supposed to be doing he decided to go to the pub every night, and get completely and utterly wrecked. He could feel himself being watched, eyes burning into his back. Oh, he knew exactly who it was. It was Sherlock Holmes, otherwise known as 'freak'. John's opinion differed completely to everyone else's, he took quite a liking to the man, or rather boy he was only 19 still. As much as John denied being bisexual to anybody that happened to ask. He found himself being rather attracted to Sherlock. The dark curls contrasting against porcelain skin. The resplendent cold calculating eyes, the slender lines of his body, the way he dressed, it was rather dandy, the way his shirt perfectly… oh god. What was John saying? He was fucking attracted to the man, it was unequivocal. He had been tantalized by Sherlock for a while now, he becoming the main reason he went home earlier than he used to even when everyone else begged him to stay.

John tried to think of anything else, anybody else. But Sherlock always crept back into his mind; he was in thrall to this strange boy, the thoughts of him only increasing his evident arousal further. If he didn't go home he'd up doing it in a toilet stall. He couldn't be in the boy's presence for more than an hour without thinking about what he'd like to do with him, imagining him screaming his name. Crude, so very crude of him, but he just couldn't help himself. This of course would've been difficult to explain to his friends, he could just imagine the conversation now. ''Oh god I'm sorry. Sarah, Mary, Mike and to anyone else in here who can see. It appears that I have become hard thinking of the boy over there, excuse me whilst I go home and touch myself to get rid of it.'' He cringed, he needed to stop thinking, and he needed to stop thinking now. He was still in the pub; he could still feel the boy staring at him. He contemplated for a while, should he just speak to him? Get in over and done with; this crush of his had been going on for an unreasonable amount of time now. What could go wrong, it would only be a simple 'Hello'. He finally turned around meeting the boy's eyes, for what was probably the first time. Sherlock didn't falter, he didn't immediately avert his eyes, turn away like John had expected. No quite the opposite in fact, he stared back tilting his head in what John could only assume was curiosity. He gave the boy what he hoped a winsome smile, and stood on the spot waiting for a reaction. He could only hope it would be a positive one.

Rated M, for later chapters. Might as well warn everyone now.

Thankyou for reading!