CHAPTER 2: (541): Physical & Theoretical Chemistry
Staring through the tinted glass, Sherlock watches the scenery change as tree lined walkways flanking stately city homes gradually give way to wide, unadorned sidewalks in front of the incongruous jumble of modern sky scrapers and historical buildings that line the streets of downtown London.
It's early enough yet that the car glides easily through the city, the morning traffic beginning to increase in volume but still moving at a steady clip for the moment. A glance down at his mobile confirms that this particular trip from Highgate Road to Morningside Academy is progressing at precisely the pace it normally does—just as he knew it would. He'd carefully timed his appearance at the top of the main staircase to coincide with the exact moment that his insufferable older brother's infinite patience began to wear thin, yet just before said brother would feel compelled to lecture him (again) on the predictably exponential relationship between each minute Sherlock delays them from leaving the house and the amount of additional transit time it will tack on to their journey. His precision had been rewarded by the grim set of Mycroft's jaw as he glared at him before looking pointedly at his terribly tasteful (and obscenely expensive) watch.
"How generous of you to grace us with your presence this morning, brother," Mycroft had said wearily, fingertips sliding idly over the polished walnut handle of the umbrella in his hand before clutching it under one arm and turning to take the briefcase and stainless steel travel mug from the uniformed woman standing next to him, then striding purposefully to the door.
Sherlock descended the last few stairs and paused for a moment in the marble foyer. Soft footsteps crossed to meet him, and he looked up to see a second silver mug being extended in his direction.
"Two sugars?" Sherlock had asked as he reached for the proffered beverage.
"Three," their housekeeper whispered, shooting him a quick wink.
"Excellent," he'd replied with a smile, then leaned forward and mirrored her conspiratorial expression before whispering, "Thank you, Marie."
"Lord knows you need the calories," she replied seriously looking him up and down and tutting ruefully. "Nothing but skin and bones, since the day you were born."
A pointed cough from the door had interrupted them then, and seconds later he'd followed his brother down the steep front steps and into the back of the sleek black car waiting for them at the kerb.
Half way through their journey, the silence in the spacious back seat has yet to be broken but for the soft rustle of paper as the elder Holmes peruses his copy of the morning Times. Lifting his coffee cup to his lips, Sherlock tips the mug up and takes a pull of the sweet caffeinated liquid in a long (and purposefully loud) wet slurp—smiling against the lip of the cup at the world-weary exhalation that sounds beside him.
"Your company, as ever, is delightfull," his older brother says from behind his newspaper.
"You could avoid exposing yourself to it if you'd simply agree to hire a second car and driver," Sherlock offers pleasantly.
"And willingly forgo these daily moments of family togetherness?" Mycroft asks, face still hidden as he turns one long, printed page. "Perish the thought."
"Don't you think I'm getting a bit old to be shuttled to school by my older brother and dropped off at the door like a child?" Sherlock challenges.
"Undoubtedly."
"Then why, exactly, can't I have a car of my own?" Sherlock inquires petulantly.
"You already have your own car, Sherlock. Ready and waiting and sitting idle for well over a year now," Mycroft reminds him pleasantly. "You need only learn to drive it."
"You don't drive," Sherlock challenges. "Ever. I can't even recall the last time I saw you behind the wheel of a car."
"My occupation affords me certain accommodation in that respect, as you are well aware," Mycroft tells him, with the air of someone who has grown tired of repeating the same information multiple times. "And just because you haven't seen me drive doesn't mean I don't do so regularly. I'd been driving for nearly two years already by the time I was your age."
"We live in a city that boasts one of the finest and well maintained public transportion systems in the world, Mycroft," Sherlock argues, changing tacks. "Driving is hardly a necessary skill in London."
"But it is a useful skill, Sherlock."
"And not a particularly difficult one to master, apparently, if even you can do it!" Sherlock snaps.
"Says the person who has not yet done so," his brother replies lightly from behind his newspaper.
"Do try to be less smug about the achievement, Mycroft. It's hardly quantum physics, after all," Sherlock fires back.
"Would that it were, brother," Mycroft intones gravely, "You'd have taught yourself the finer points of ignition wiring and been touring the countryside in Old Bessie by the time you were eleven years old."
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock scoffs with a dramatic wave of his hand. "My feet couldn't have reached the pedals in that monster. It was less a sedan than a yacht."
"A fair point," his brother concedes. "Father's Aston Martin coupe would have been a much better fit for you."
Sherlock is silent beside him for a beat—just a fraction of a second, really, a mere moment within a moment—and in all fairness even an astute observer might miss the slight hitch in his posture and the single soft, sharply drawn breath hissed through clenched teeth. It's a momentary shift in demeanor, passing as quickly as it came, and it's doubtful that most people would notice it had happened at all.
Mycroft Holmes is not most people.
His long fingers tighten ever so slightly where they grasp the edges of the newsprint barrier before him, and he moves to fold one corner of the paper down so that he can look at his brother, whose gaze snaps back into focus as he turns to face him.
"I do understand your…reluctance, when it comes to this matter," Mycroft begins, his voice softer now. "But if Mummy and Father were here, I believe they would—"
"But they're not here," Sherlock says matter-of-factly, interrupting his brother with the look in his eyes as much as the words he speaks. Mycroft holds the gaze, letting the moment stretch out between them, then tilts his head slightly and tips his chin in a small nod.
"No," he concedes gently. "They're not."
Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, his expression blank and passive, but Mycroft doesn't miss the slight creases at the outside corners of the eyes that are so very like their mother's (almond shaped, long lashed, pale grey-green irises speckled impossibly with so many other hues) yet somehow so very different at the same time. As his younger brother turns his stare away and back out the window, Mycroft realises what it is he sees in Sherlock's gaze that he doesn't ever recall seeing in Rosamund Holmes' eyes. Sadness.
Mycroft silently watches his brother, eyes tracing the rather striking profile he cuts, stark and pale and angular against the dark tinted window behind it, and after a long moment swallows against an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, clears his throat softly, the raises his newspaper back up before him and continues to read.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't hate Morningside Academy.
True, the first time he'd scaled the front stairs and walked through the main doors trailing sulkily behind his officious brother's long, purposeful stride, he had silently predicted it would be approximately three months (four, tops) before they'd be performing this same trip in reverse, forcing Mycroft to locate another well regarded educational institution that would gladly accept Sherlock based on his stellar test results yet be willing (for a price) to overlook his somewhat colourful academic history.
But strolling through the empty halls, deserted as they nearly always are at this early hour, Sherlock is willing to concede that he doesn't loathe the place entirely. A fact which, as it turns out, comes as much of a surprise to him as it does to anyone, really.
He finds that the facilities in general are pleasant enough, the pre-war building that houses the institution having been continuously upgraded and modernized over the years. The board of governors has prioritized a focus on an infrastructure that embraces advances in technology at the same time that it strives to maintain the historical reputation of the institution. As a result, a state of the art intranet accessible to nearly any electronic device that connects the staff with the students (and the students to each other) exists in the same building that now boasts one of the largest traditional libraries of any secondary school in the country.
The staff, in Sherlock's opinion, is fairly acceptable on the whole, with a few glaring exceptions (because really, the very idea that one can claim a degree in "physical education" as a legitimately academic pursuit is beyond his understanding when it seems to him that the only prerequisites for an actual job in the field are the ability to blow a whistle and the burning desire to relive one's own testosterone fueled glory days vicariously through subsequent generations). His other instructors have displayed skills of at least basic competency in their chosen fields, and even those that continue to lecture him about such tedious matters as "attendance" and "participation" cannot deny that his coursework demonstrates an excellent understanding of the curriculum, whether or not he can be bothered to actually come to class.
The students, however—well, they're the same as students everywhere really. Dull, boorish, privileged, and excessively concerned with all manner of ridiculous topics that he's never found to be worthy of the level of fascination his peers assign to them. True, there are a few personalities amongst the masses that he doesn't find completely objectionable, and when he'd first arrived at the school it came as a bit of a shock to find that he wasn't immediately and universally despised. For a while there, he'd even thought that he might possibly have found someone his own age that he actually might enjoy associating with, someone that seemed to enjoy his company as well, but…
Well. He'd been mistaken, that's all.
Besides, he reminds himself as he rounds the top of the staircase and turns down the second floor corridor and begins rooting around in his shoulder bag for the spare set of keys Mrs. Hudson gave him, when this school year comes to an end he'll be on his way to university, and at that point it won't matter who he befriended (or didn't) in his tenure here.
The sudden, sharp clang of metal against tile startles him as it echoes through the empty corridor.
Which, as it turns out, isn't empty at all.
"Buggering hell!" an oddly familiar voice exclaims, and Sherlock looks up just in time to avoid a head on collision with…
John.
Sherlock stops short, his gaze sweeping quickly over their surroundings (staffroom door directly to the right, a fob hung with several keys lying on the floor to the left) and then coming to rest on the person standing just a few feet away as he attempts to reconcile the young man before him with the voice he'd heard talking with Mrs. Hudson in the library yesterday.
He looks (down, as the man is quite a bit shorter than he is) at him, taking in the large backpack slung over one (broad, well defined) shoulder, the dark green cardigan jumper hanging from the crook of one (tanned) elbow, the arms laden with a stack of heavy books (academic texts of various scientific subjects) and the large lidded paper coffee cup balanced precariously on top of the whole mess held in place by the (dimpled) chin attached to a face in possession of a (slightly chapped) set of lips and a pair of (blue) eyes all framed by a halo of (short and slightly mussed) golden hair.
"Sorry about the language, you know, before," the man says sheepishly, his (quite deeply blue, really) eyes crinkling at the corners as he attempts to explain. "It's just that my goddamn hands are full and I've dropped my sodding keys—oh hell, sorry. Again."
Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, and he tries to stop the corner of his mouth from quirking upwards in a grin, but apparently fails to do so as the stammering young man huffs out a short laugh.
"Look, I swear I'm not trying to break into the place or anything, but would you mind…" John asks, cocking his head towards the set of keys on the floor, and looking relieved as Sherlock steps to his left and bends down to retrieve them. "Thanks, I appreciate the help. I'm John Watson, by the way, I'm the new—"
"Library assistant," Sherlock says, straightening back and up and thumbing through the keys to find the correct one.
"Yeah," John Watson says, surprise in his tone as Sherlock watches him shift the stack of books into the crook of his right arm then grab the coffee cup with his left hand and slowly roll his shoulder back and forth with a slight grimace before continuing. "How did you—"
"Car accident or sports injury?" Sherlock inquires.
"Sorry, what?"
"Your shoulder," he clarifies, throwing a sidelong glance in John's direction. "Was it a car accident or a sports injury?"
"Sports injury," John answers slowly, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Torn rotator cuff, but how—"
"Is that why you lost your scholarship?" Sherlock asks, sliding the proper key into the lock and turning it, the telltale click echoing through the hall as the tumblers align.
"Yeah, I'm not exactly sure what's going on here," John says, his voice a bit suspicious as he looks up into Sherlock's face. "Or who you've been talking to, but—"
"I haven't been talking to anyone," Sherlock says, his cheeks pinking slightly as he looks away and turns the knob, pushing the door open a few inches and gesturing to it. "There you are. Welcome to Morningside Academy."
"Thanks," the shorter man says slowly, watching him extract the keys from where they're still hanging from the knob, his eyes widening in surprise when Sherlock steps forward and reaches towards the waistband of John's jeans and pushes the keys into his front pocket with two long, pale fingers before stepping gracefully around him and continuing down the hall. As he makes his way down the corridor, Sherlock can feel the new library assistant's gaze boring into his back.
"Wait!" John calls out a moment later.
Sherlock stops walking, then slowly turns to look back at John where he still stands in front of the now open staffroom door staring at him curiously. Sherlock returns the look, and a few long seconds later when John still hasn't spoken he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head expectantly.
"Yes?"
"Well," the shorter man says, pausing for another moment as if in thought—the very tip of his tongue darting out to glide over his bottom lip, a mere flash of pink that disappears so quickly Sherlock can't be sure if he really saw it to begin with—before he shrugs his good shoulder and heaves a slightly exasperated sigh. "It's just that you seem to know exactly who I am, but I don't know a thing about you. I don't know if you're a student here, or what you're doing in the building at this hour—I don't even know your name."
Sherlock raises his cup to his lips and looks at John Watson over the edge, takes a long sip, then narrows his eyes and considers his response. After a moment he swallows his mouthful of sweet, hot coffee and says, "I am a student here, I'm always here this early, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'll be in the library." He raises his cup and tips it in mock salute, then turns on his heel and continues walking to the end of the hall before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.
Staring at the papers spread out before him, Sherlock reaches up to tilt the desk lamp a bit to better illuminate his notes. Squinting, he concentrates on the section of the page where he'd been forced to write out his formulas in smaller and smaller text to compensate for the lack of space he'd given himself when he'd set out to chart the reactions in the first place. He touches the tip of his pencil to the scant open space below the last set of notations and is so lost in thought that that he fails to notice that he's not alone until a hand alights softly on his shoulder, making him jump in surprise.
"Sorry," John Watson says quickly, deftly raising his arms just in time to narrowly avoid having the coffee cup clutched in his left hand slapped out of it by one of Sherlock's flailing arms. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I wasn't scared," Sherlock answers crossly, settling back into his chair and rearranging his notes as his heart rate begins to settle back down to something approaching normal. "A bit startled perhaps, which is hardly surprising given that you chose to alert me to your presence by clutching my shoulder instead of simply announcing yourself."
"Well, I thought about shouting 'boo!', but it seemed a bit childish," John replies seriously, and when Sherlock shoots him a withering look, he simply shrugs—and smiles. "To be fair, I did say your name. Twice. But it looked like you were a bit lost in thought."
"Yet you still felt compelled to interrupt me," Sherlock replies, his earlier surprise giving way to a touch of annoyance. "Very considerate of you."
"Hey, I said I was sorry," John Watson offers with an apologetic grin as he raises his cup and takes a drink. "So you're Sherlock Holmes."
"Apparently."
"Right. As in the 'Holmes Collection', and the library endowment?" John inquires.
"The very same," Sherlock confirms, affecting a disinterested tone as he bends back over his notes and begins to transcribe the next equation in the sequence.
"So your parents are responsible for all of this?" John Watson asks, his tone impressed as he gestures broadly to the space around them, and if he notices that Sherlock stiffens slightly and goes momentarily still, he doesn't mention it.
"My brother, actually," Sherlock answers, his voice less abrasive than it had been just moments ago.
"Your brother?" John asks, with a touch of surprise, and without even looking at him Sherlock can pinpoint the exact moment that he understands the implications of the pronouncement, can practically see the puzzle pieces sliding into sequence and clicking into place, the image of the poor little orphan child coming into focus. "Oh. So your parents—"
"Are dead," Sherlock confirms crisply, turning to look up at him where he stands, and all traces of the earlier flash of vulnerability have disappeared. "Is there a point to this line of questioning?"
"No, not particularly," John says, a bit defensively, before drawing in a breath and letting it out heavily. "Look I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot earlier. When she showed me around yesterday, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that you spend quite a lot of time here in the library, and since I'll be spending a fair amount of it here myself I thought it might be nice for us to, I don't know, get to know a bit about each other, I guess."
Sherlock sweeps his gaze down the length of the young man before him, and then reverses course to scan back up to his face before narrowing his eyes and regarding him shrewdly for a long moment—then he takes a deep breath and begins to speak:
"I know you're in your first year at Bart's and the London School of Medicine and Dentistry, and that you're studying to be a doctor. I know that you were able to begin your academic career there thanks in large part to a fairly generous rugby scholarship, the same scholarship that you subsequently lost as a result of the shoulder injury you incurred early in the season. I know that you were able to make ends meet at first without additional employment, likely because the rent on your basement flat at 221 Baker Street is exceedingly reasonable and therefore you were able to finish out the first term by severely cutting back your expenses, but it wasn't long before you realised that you'd need to find a job—one with flexible hours to accommodate your fluctuating class schedule as well as offering a fairly quiet environment that will allow you time to study during the less busy moments of your shift. I also know that such a job, in general, could hardly pay you enough to make it worth the petrol to make the trip each day, let alone fund your tuition, but if you were lucky enough to find such work under the management of someone with broad discretionary access to a private trust who was willing to pay you generously for your services both out of a sense of affection as well as a belief that you'll do the job very well, then it would be the perfect arrangement for you—and thus, here you are."
"So you see, John. I know a great deal about you already," Sherlock says, the corners of his mouth tipping up into a smug grin before nodding dismissively and turning his attention back to the notes spread out on the desk in front of him. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"
John stares down at the younger man for a long moment, but Sherlock keeps his eyes on the factors and formulas covering the pages before him, fully expecting the inevitable angry outburst at any moment and attempting to brace himself for it while still appearing casual and uninterested…but it doesn't come. A full minute passes, and though Sherlock tries to maintain his careful air of nonchalance, in the end his curiosity gets the best of him and he turns his head slowly to meet John's gaze, the blue eyes open wide and slightly out of focus above a mouth hanging slightly agape.
"Are you quite all right, John?" Sherlock asks hesitantly.
"Yeah," John says slowly, before his mouth snaps abruptly closed and he shakes his head slightly before lowering his gaze to meet Sherlock's. "Actually, no. I'm not. How on earth could you know all of that?"
"I didn't know," Sherlock clarifies, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. "I saw."
"You saw?" John asks incredulously. "You saw what?"
Sherlock turns in his chair to face John fully, regards him curiously for a beat, then begins to explain.
"Your carriage and demeanor says athlete, your age and general physical condition suggests a level of play that exceeds the occasional friendly game in the park or membership in a casual amateur club. Your arms are tan but the colour stops just shy of the sleeve hem of your t-shirt, suggesting a sport played outdoors in a uniform featuring a moderately short sleeve length. Now the sport itself could be something other than rugby, but given that the skin on your elbows is scarred by years of repeated minor injuries to the flesh there and the fact that your short stature and stocky build give you the ideal physique to play the back line, I think we can safely say that Rugby has long been your sport of choice."
"OK," John says, a touch of wonder in his voice but still eyeing him suspiciously. "I'll buy all of that, but who said anything about playing for Barts?"
"You did," Sherlock says. "Not in so many words, of course, but it was you who pointed me directly to the evidence. Literally dropped it right in front of me."
"Ah," John says with sudden understanding, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring of keys Sherlock had retrieved for him from the floor that morning and runs his thumb over the key fob—tracing the shape of the distinctive black and white checked shield rimmed in bright yellow that serves as the team logo for the Royal Hospitals RFC before looking back up at Sherlock. "Doesn't mean I go to school there, though. Might just be a big fan."
"Possible," Sherlock concedes with a thoughtful tip of his head, "but unlikely given the stack of textbooks with subjects highly specific to the course work of a first year medicine student—and even more unlikely since all three bore stickers on their spines clearly indicating that they were purchased at an officially sanctioned Barts/LMC textbook exchange. Books which you chose not to find room for in your backpack, which is completely understandable given that the extra weight is more easily borne by the well-developed muscles of your upper arms instead of putting extra strain on your still healing shoulder, which—though much improved—still bothers you enough that you need to stop and stretch the joint quite frequently. Losing your scholarship put quite a strain on your budget, I'd wager."
John's expression doesn't alter much at the pronouncement, but his mouth tightens a bit, and he nods in confirmation while unconsciously rolling his left shoulder the way he had earlier.
"Luckily, your rent is set at a comically low amount for such a desirable central London location, and that does improve your financial situation considerably." Sherlock says confidently.
"How can you possibly know where I live?" John asks, curiosity warring with disbelief.
"Take a look at the cup in your hand, John," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes slightly as John does exactly that. "Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café, despite making a passably decent cup of coffee, is hardly the type of establishment one might go out of their way to patronize, therefore we can assume proximity played a significant factor in your stopping there this morning. The fact that Speedy's is located in a Westminster building owned by one Martha Hudson, who just happens to be the venerable librarian here at Morningside Academy, leads me to believe that I may alsosafely assume that proximity played a significant factor in her hiring you on as her assistant as well."
"Doesn't prove that I live in the building," John challenges, looking thoughtful. "Mrs. Hudson could be my Aunt for all you know."
"Given that her late husband was an only child and that she has only one sister, who as of this date has never been married and claims parentage of no one outside of the rather extensive collection of neighborhood cats she feeds daily, I find that scenario to be highly unlikely. Besides, if the faint smell of mildew on your clothing wasn't evidence enough that you've taken up residence in the basement flat of 221 Baker Street, the slight, and obviously new, squidginess around your waistline is a dead giveaway, as it is certainly the result of fewer intense regular workouts combined with a steady diet of home baked goods that no doubt find their way into your flat with astonishing regularity."
John plucks at the neckline of the green cardigan sweater he slipped on at some point after Sherlock first saw him in the hall and lifts it to his face and takes a deep sniff, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.
"My clothes don't smell musty to me," he tells Sherlock.
"Of course they don't," Sherlock says dismissively. "You're used to the smell, so you don't notice it. But don't worry, scents have a harder time lingering on cheaper, artificial fibers, it's already less noticeable than it was earlier."
"Well good," John says, huffing out a breathy chuckle. "I've been looking for the silver lining to being dead broke, I guess 'quick dissipation of mouldy odours' is a start. And I'm not squidgy, by the way. My trousers fit just as well as they ever have, thank you very much."
"For now," Sherlock concedes gravely.
"So let me get this straight," John says, holding up his left hand and ticking off the details one by one on short, sturdy fingers. "You looked at me for a total of thirty seconds and were able to tell that I played rugby at school, that I've lost my scholarship due to an injury, that I'm a first year medicine student at Bart's, that I live at 221C Baker Street, that I'm damn near broke, that I walk around smelling like mould, and that I'm apparently also getting fat?"
"Well," Sherlock says carefully, "I suppose that is one way of putting it, yes."
"I see," John says nodding, a slightly incredulous look on his face.
Sherlock looks at John impassively, quietly taking in a breath and inwardly bracing himself for the type of reaction he's come to expect in situations like these. He watches John digest the events of the last several minutes, then nod his head and open his mouth to speak.
"That," he begins, looking Sherlock directly in the eye, "was amazing."
Sherlock freezes where he sits, eyes blinking rapidly as he replays John's words in his mind repeatedly, making sure he heard them correctly.
"You think so?" He asks, the timidity in his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
"Yeah, I do," John says, smiling and shaking his head. "Absolutely extraordinary. A bit unflattering, I admit, but bloody brilliant."
"Oh," Sherlock says eloquently, narrowing his eyes slightly and staring at John who looks back at him with a gaze as open and sincere as the words he just spoke "That's not what people normally say."
"No?" John asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "What do they normally say?"
"Piss off," Sherlock says, then watches as John's shoulders begin to shake and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest and slowly works its way up his throat before it dissolves into that same infectious giggle he'd overheard the day before—the one that makes Sherlock's own lips twitch as a soft laugh escapes from his mouth, the two sounds combining, weaving together to fill the space between and around them, echoing in his ears even as it dies away, and Sherlock watches John's face—watches blue eyes crinkle with laughter, watches tanned cheeks pinked with amusement, watches the last clear notes of John's laugh tumbling from his lips…then all at once realises that he's watching—staring, even—and turns quickly away, looking back down at the desk and fidgeting with the notes spread across the surface.
"I don't doubt it," John says with a broad grin and a sigh, then steps a bit closer to get a look at the papers Sherlock is absently pushing around the desk. "So what are you working on so diligently back here?"
"Chemistry," Sherlock tells him, suddenly glad for the change in subject.
"Oh wow," John says, bending a bit lower over Sherlock's shoulder and examining the equations more closely. "These are reaction summaries, aliphatic organic compounds, right?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, a note of surprise in his voice as he turns slightly to surreptitiously examine John's profile as he leans casually on the edge of the desk and looks over Sherlock's notes. "At least they're supposed to be. I'm still working on the progressions."
"They cover organic chemistry in A-Levels now?" John asks, his curiosity evident.
"No," Sherlock says with a sigh. "The standard texts available at this school are disappointingly basic. This is more of a personal project, I suppose."
"That's pretty impressive," John says, standing back up and looking down at Sherlock with a smile.
"It passes the time," Sherlock says lightly as something warm and unfamiliar blooms behind his sternum. "I am almost certain there are some much more advanced Chemistry texts in storage downstairs that have yet to be catalogued, but Mrs. Hudson won't let me go searching for them."
"I'll keep an eye out then," John says amiably. "Let you know what I find as we work through unpacking the crates."
"That would be…good," He says, nodding his thanks and watching as John smiles before looking back down at Sherlock's carefully transcribed equations.
"I can't believe you've worked all this out on your own," John says again, a note of impressed wonder in his voice, and Sherlock sits up a bit straighter in his chair at the praise. "We just started learning about these reactions last term. I'd never have been able to tackle these in my A-Levels."
"That's because you're an idiot," Sherlock says reflexively, turning to regard John when he doesn't immediately respond, taking in the shocked amusement on his face, and rolling his eyes dismissively. "Oh don't be like that. Practically everyone is."
John shakes his head as a broad smile stretches over his face and another laugh-turned-giggle floats through the air between them. Sherlock sucks in a shallow breath at the sound, surprised again by how it seems to resonate somewhere deep within him, how he can't seem to hear it often enough, how he begins to miss it even before it's fully gone.
"Yeah, I'm starting to understand that whole 'piss off' reaction," John says, smiling as he shakes his head and lifts his coffee cup to his mouth.
Sherlock sees John's lips part against the white plastic edge, hears him inhale slightly as he closes his mouth around the small opening in the lid, and watches the muscles of his neck contract as he swallows repeatedly. He's staring so intently that he doesn't notice at first that John is looking at him quizzically. Thinking quickly, he clears his throat slightly and gestures to the cup clutched in John's hand.
"You're not supposed to have that in here, you know."
"Really?" John asks, sounding surprised and looking down at the paper-covered surface of Sherlock's desk and gesturing to the gleaming stainless steel mug. "You've got one."
"True," Sherlock concedes, picking it up and looking thoughtful as he takes a sip. "And Mrs. Hudson will arrive at any moment to scold me for it—after which she will allow me to keep it 'just this once'."
As if summoned by the mere mention of her name, the heavy library door swishes open followed by the soft tap of kitten heels traveling across the floor in their general direction.
"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson calls out as she crosses through the large common space in the center of the room. "Sherlock, love—are you already settled in?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls back, and he and John both turn to look toward the end of the aisle.
"Oh good," Martha Hudson says merrily as they hear her start across the floor, stopping to flick on a table lamp on her way. "I've hired a new assistant, and I want you on your best behavior when you meet him, understood?"
"No promises," Sherlock says petulantly, smiling back as John shoots him a conspiratorial grin.
"Sherlock Holmes, you listen very carefully," the librarian says sternly, the soft hum of computer terminals coming to life as she makes her way closer to his location. "John Watson is a lovely young man, and I think if you give him half a chance you just might find that the two of you have more in common than you—"
Martha Hudson rounds the corner and stops abruptly and stares at the two young men where they stand, smiling broadly when John lifts a hand and waves it at her.
"Oh wonderful, you've already met!" She exclaims, beaming at each of them in turn, then narrowing her gaze and fixing it on the cups in their hands, pursing her lips crossly. "For heaven's sake Sherlock. How many times must I tell you that you're not to bring beverages into the library?"
"At least once more, it would seem," Sherlock says brightly, lifting his cup and taking a drink.
"The sign out front is very clear, young man. No Food, No Drink, No open flames. I don't blame you, John—this is your first day after all, but this one here is beginning to try my patience on the matter."
"Won't happen again, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says solemnly, shooting John a sly wink and taking yet another drink from his cup, smiling against the edge of it as he watches John suppressing a grin of his own.
"See to it that it doesn't," the librarian says sternly, then lifts one handle of her bag off of her wrist and begins rooting around in the depths. "Though perhaps it's just as well you've got something warm to drink, it'll go nicely with these," she says, producing two small paper wrapped parcels and handing one to each of them.
"Rasperry jam biscuits?" John asks hopefully.
"Of course they are," Sherlock says confidently.
"They're my favorite," John and Sherlock both say, nearly in unison.
"See there? Already something in common," Mrs. Hudson says smugly, beaming at them both before pointing a stern finger at each of them in turn. "But just this once, mind."
"Understood, Mrs. H." John agrees solemnly.
"But for the moment we've got food, we've got drinks, perhaps I should light something on fire while all the rules are suspended," Sherlock teases, ripping open his packet of biscuits and popping one into his mouth. "Just this once."
"Don't press your luck, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson fires back sternly before turning to smile at her new assistant. "All right then, John. Ready to get to work?"
"Ready when you are," John answers, following her as she disappears around the end of the aisle.
Sherlock watches them go, then stares for a long moment at the empty space—and is momentarily startled when John reappears suddenly, leaning to poke his head around the end of the aisle.
"Talk to you later, yeah?" John Watson asks.
"All right," Sherlock answers, returning the smile directed his way before it disappears once again.
After a moment he looks back down at his notes, pops another biscuit into his mouth, then gets back to work—crumbs, and a smile, lingering on his lips.
