"You're a doctor, yes?" Sherlock asks him once he's leant against the wall by their dorm's front door. The abrupt question as strange as his complexion. It worked though.

John frowns at his shivering form, "Planning to be, wouldn't my stalker know?" then turns to unlock the door when Sherlock glares back at his concerned stare. Jesus, he just found the guy freezing to death on playground equipment, could you blame him for being a little careful? A question still gnawed at him though. How the hell had the entirety of the morning rush managed to turn a blind eye to a—quite blatantly—dying student?

Sherlock speaks again, unaware of John's bristling, internal rant. "Do you think stupidity is contagious?"

What? John gives an aborted indignant huff, that immediately trails off to a small laugh. "Not that I'm aware, unless you're bashing mental retardation."

"Well, of course not." Sherlock defends, hands coming up to blow into his palms. "They have an excuse."

"Do you?"

"What?" Sherlock snaps, affronted, eyes becoming slits over his hands.

Quickly realizing his dire mistake, John corrects it in a rush before he's killed by a hypothetical dagger to the head. "Doyou think stupidity is contagious?"

"Oh," Sherlock nods and rolls his eyes looking away, seemingly at himself. As if John would callhim a retard, the very thought must have been absurd. John rolls his eyes at the thought of Sherlock's probable thought.

"Yeah, although it's generally genetic or influenced." Sherlock hums for a second, then looks at John. "Like cancer."

John looks at him sideways, curving up his lips to seem politely intrigued, when in reality he begrudgingly finds the logic applicable to half the ward, and opens the door. Letting it swing open into the room.

"Is there a cure?" He asks, leaning over to steer Sherlock's shivering form into their room. John needed to take his temperature, right now. If Sherlock's temperature was beneath 95 degrees John would have to call an ambulance. That didn't appear to be the case though, Sherlock was gaining feeling back into his hands and the color back in his face. Now just sharing likeness with a sulking kitten caught in down-poor.

Sherlock brushes him off and moves to enter on his own. Stopping short to stumble and lean against the creaky doorway. He must have still been dizzy.

"Are you done?" John asks behind him, voice taking on an impatient sigh. Patience Watson, think of him as a patient. Patience for patients. He could tell, right now. That Sherlock would make for great practice in this area for the next four years. Great, he gets exclusive training. Well, if Sherlock even survives long enough. John purses his lips at the thought.

"Yes," Sherlock breathes, sounding irritated, and straightens. "There is a cure, taking fact at face value and evading biased status quo."

This guy was so stubborn, he could probably will a wall to talk to him. Seriously.

"Fascinating," John forces politeness. "I'm going to help you inside now. And then I'm taking your temperature."

"Orally, right?"

This brat… John closes his eyes, an irked grin twitching at his lips, and baring his teeth. John feels the back of his neck burn and hisses out "Yes, orally."

"Oh thank god, that just might've turned me straight." Sherlock murmurs too himself, before clenching the doorframe so hard his nails scratch into the wood, peeling off some of the white paint.

John feels his face go aflame at the admission, and lets out an entirely inappropriate bark of laughter, then a few more and hunches over a bit. Unseeing of the way Sherlock promptly stiffens like a metal rod and grips the doorway tightly, peering over his shoulder to eye him fearfully. "Ah, sorry." Nor how pain-stakingly slowly he loosens himself.

"Come on," He finally sobers, still a tad embarrassed and wanting to giggle. And leads Sherlock inside, noting the way he doesn't stiffen when John puts his arm around his waist this time around. "inside with you."

Sherlock just shakes a bit more, making John glance up. Seeing Sherlock turn his face away to hide his mortified grin, the trembling couldn't be played off as just cold. But now breathy, disbelieving giggles too.

He must have thought John would be some homophobic twat. Maybe even thinking John would do something about it.

Oh Christ.

John shakes off the urge to reassure Sherlock that 'gay is okay'. Just thinking of what Sherlock must have felt at his own accidental coming-out. Especially to his own male roommate. John mumbles a quiet sorry. Sitting Sherlock onto his quilted cot, as Sherlock's was covered in paraphernalia and petri dishes, he reaches under his bed—coming up with a small, red kit.

"Open up." John says, holding the glass thermometer to Sherlock's mouth. Repressing the urge to pry it against his trembling lips. Because that would be strange, especially after….yeah. John blames his transfixion on the strangeness of a boy wearing lipstick.

Sherlock just blinks and does, lifting his tongue to hold the thermometer's tip underneath the slimy appendage.

Salivation is a good sign. John notes, watching the action all the while, and only being knocked from his stupor by a beep.

96. 1 F and rising.

He was fine, but "Shit." just barely. What would have happened if John hadn't had to take the long way around to get his medical textbook. Practice had been cancelled due to their coach's wedding and a substitute hadn't even been assigned.

How long would Sherlock have stayed out there until someone finally decided to pry his frozen corpse off the bars and deal with the consequences?

His outburst causes Sherlock to frown at him, crinkle of his brow looking a little too alarmed for John's liking.

"What is it?" Sherlock manages past his clattering jaw.

John closes his eyes momentarily to collect himself against the entirely rational spike of anger, no matter how badly he wants to tell him exactly what. "You'll be fine mate, your temperature's above 95 and rising." He assures and squeezes Sherlock's knee. "Just need to warm up, okay?"

Sherlock eyes the assuring hand. "Sure."

"Great," John removes his hand at the stare and rises, looking around Sherlock's methodic madness. "Got a heater? We can't raise the temperature here."

"Landlords and their thermostats." Sherlock murmurs knowingly, cocking a brow into nothingness, seeming to briefly reminisce. What was he thinking? "No, I'll just do jumping jacks or something." Says Sherlock, rotating his forearm in 360 degree circles to assuage blood flow to his hands. John notes the method in curiosity.

"And-ah, thank you." Sherlock says after a moment, pointedly observing his stretching arms in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I appreciate not being left to freeze to death."

John laughs to cover up the bitterness rushing up his throat, wanting to spit it out like a child. He was no fool to his fellow male classmates behavior. Especially in the face of someone so…well. Sarcastic and cynical came to mind. But hell, this was Uni, we all were- that should've helped him fit in.

He was so good at it too. Ah, was it because he was younger? Were they jealous? Surely they all couldn't be that petulant. Sherlock was just a kid too. Plus, John takes Sherlock in for a moment, he was quite a looker too. Fair complexion, high cheek bones…hair that had probably seen better days, not the buffest of body types. Sherlock must have had a few admirers that would take pity on him. Then again, Sherlock was in the men's ward. Still though… guys are into that aren't they? Like a twink, except intimidatingly intelligent and vaguely terrifying...never mind.

Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. Whoops. "Anytime." John waves off, not voicing the obvious about the genius's own rather concerning situation-as the headmaster had referred to Sherlock as during their last meeting. Genius. He's not one to disagree with the hard-earned term as he observes the multitude of projects littering Sherlock's side, feeling a little proud. There was a method to the madness here, just have to look, he supposes. Observing a jar filled with formaldehyde and tiny white balls, the label reading: Rat eyes. Keeewl…?

Sniffing, John goes over to slip the blanket his mother knitted him over Sherlock's shoulders. The younger man looks up from massaging his socked, dead feet, before using a hand to pull it farther his shoulders. Interesting eyes too…was that a speck of violet? No. Blue?

"Indigo and violet, your mother has nice taste." Sherlock observes, worrying the material between his thumb and forefinger with care.

John nods at the complement, because yes, she does, and toes off his shoes. Because, no he's not leaving a student of whom has just had a near death experience for some wrinkly sod reiterating common term. John was ahead after all, and replies. "Yeah, they're her favorite colors."

And drops down to the bed, making Sherlock bounce and dip from the sudden weight and bump into him. Only as Sherlock recoils does John notice the weirdness of the statement.

"Wait. How did you know my mother gave it to me?" John questions, leaning over in suspicion. He hadn't told Sherlock a lick about his personal life. How far did his hacking weave?

"Uhhh." Sherlock drawls for a second, curling away and nearly falling off the cot.

John sighs and catches him by the arm. "Well, Mr. Stalker?"

Sherlock exhales through his nose, looking weary and resigned.

Oh, god. John really had a stalker. He is minutely flattered before becoming alarmed, oh god. Did Sherlock arrange to have his victim roomed with him? He did say he hacked the school system. But John could handle him, Sherlock was harmless in his state—

"As if I'd need to stalk you." Sherlock snorts vaguely, making John glare at him in confusion. "I know your mother made it for you due to the uneven pulls and knitting of the material. Not machine-like in the slightest." He informs a surprised John, spreading the wool beneath his thumbs as he crosses his legs, eyes flicking over the material's thick thread. "Each pull is executed with care. As if not wanting to pull the wool too tightly in places to make it larger, but thick enough to ensure it not catching onto your bare toes and fingers when pulling it over yourself during chilly nights. She must have been knitting for decades, with this level of finesse."

John feels his chest slowly warm, a new affection for the gift being elicited by Sherlock's clinical depiction.

Sherlock gives him a small grin, his inky curls shadowing his eyes from the yellow lamplight above. Serving to make him look just a bit less helpless. "So, how'd you ruin the sweater your mom wanted you to wear yesterday?"

John just squints at him, the confused grin spreading across his face beginning to ache, and shakes his head a little. "What the fuck?"

Sherlock stiffens and blinks, as if remembering himself. "No, forget it. I stuttered."

"You most definitely did not." John calls out the pitifully executed lie the second it finishes being pathetically executed. "get on with it, Mr. Psychic."

That does the trick. And he'll later remember this as the day he was suddenly thrust into deducing hell.

"Fine," Sherlock growls and shifts to face him in his Indian position, hands going down to grip his own ankles in a steadying grip. An icy glare bores into his own perplexed one. "Butyou asked so don't you dare deck me afterwards."

John cocks a brow and looks him up and down, noting his defensive posture. "I'm sure I'll manage." He manages past the urge to tell Sherlock that he can't deck people because it would fuck with his temperament evaluation. Thus dirtying his spotless profile and later rendering him unemployed and forever alone.

Sherlock sniffles and wipes his sleeve under his red nose, the color similar to that of his mouth, and starts. "Divine."

Sherlock takes deep breath. John holds his. Finally a "It was a lucky guess, good day."

"Oh, get back here." John finally hisses in exasperation, catching Sherlock by the back of his hoodie and dragging him back onto the cot before he can sprint away. "You're starting to freak me out." John tells him honestly, hand gripping the front of the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders to keep him there, acting as some sort of leash. This was a little irking now. Was he living with an alien? A super spy with super gadgets from the future who enjoyed telling people random shit about their person and then torturing them by not telling them how they knew? Maybe his future wasn't as dull as he first thought. "If you don't come out with it right now, so help me god I'll sit on you until you tell me."

Groaning lowly, Sherlock keeps his gaze on his hands. "Fine." John still doesn't release him, just lowers his arm and keeps his hand there.

"You smelled of bread and tea upon your delayed arrival—"

"Yousniffed me?" John can't help but cut him off at the admission, feeling his mouth wobble. "I-I don't know what to say. Good Sherlock want a biscuit? -"

"Shut up and listen—"

"No wonder the dog chased you, he probably just wanted to share one—"

"That doesn't even—" Sherlock frowns and squints, waving his arms in a small, bewildered gesture as though waving away fumes of stupidity. "Movingon, I'd assumed that you'd just returned from lunch with you mother, given the lipstick smudge where you had wiped off the affectionate mark on your cheek she left after her farewell out of embarrassment. Couldn't be a girlfriend'slip stain—" Sherlock grimaces at the syllables for reasons bright, red, and well-known and bites his lower lip in ire. "-given the nonexistent pictures of her, you'd be much too affectionate with a girlfriend you allow to touch you so casually to not have any pictures of her. So it's your mother."

"Could be a sister."

"Not a sister either," Sherlock adds at John's imploring look. "She's much too busy to bother with a now-distant relative."

John raises his blond brows at him. Sherlock answers. "Caught wind of her missing face ripped from every photograph. Petty one, aren't you?"

Rolling his eyes, John asks again. "How did you know about the ruined sweater?"

Sherlock shrugs and hangs his feet off the edge of the bed, making John release him from his blankie-leash. "A guess mostly, I was bored and noticed that your mother knitted for you. Your sweater wasn't knitted and it was your first day here. She would probably preen at her university boy being all grown up, fleeing the nest, and would want her son to wear something she'd made for the very occasion. So you obviously fucked it up and replaced it to avoid upsetting her."

Sherlock slips the blanket off his shoulders and ambles away, no longer dying. Leaving a blinking John in his wake.

"Sentiment." Sherlock accentuates with a gesture similar to that of a magician's, all for good cause too.

Wow. "That," John, still watching Sherlock's stiff back, nods in affirmation of his own admiration. "was totallyawesome."

John generally tried to remain mature most of the time, it earned respect from his peers in his aspired field, but even he needed his moments. He was an impressionable 18 year old boy with hopes and dreams, and innocence. Porn hadn't corrupted him inevery sense of the word.

Sherlock halts his trek, it was almost physically painful to watch him go before, he looked so forlorn. But now he perks up and turns to John, looking surprised. Hesitant. "You really think so?"

John huffs and slumps, watching Sherlock in shock, a decent bit disbelieving too. Was this guy serious? He just told him…pretty much everything he did and didn't have going for himself at the moment. Just bylooking at him. …And sniffing him, which was fine, John didn't mind. It was flattering.

"It's hard not to. That really was amazing—should put it on youtube- I mean—" He smothers a giggle when a thought comes up. "And here I was, thinking you were checking me out."

Sherlock doesn't react, just bats his eyes, tilting his head a bit and says. "Yes, that's what most assume. The process can...send a lot of mixed signals."

"Turns out you were gay anyways, so I still win." John grins in triumph and pulls the blanket over himself, the material still warm from Sherlock's body heat.

A laugh, an embarrassed wave, "Oh piss off." and Sherlock's off and back to academia.

"Heads up!" Phil shouts after chucking over the intended-to-be-unexpected green and white rugby ball. They hadn't thrown him a ball the entire game, and it was gnawing at him. So, perhaps a little too eagerly, John catches the ball in his palms, the impact making a small 'skssh' against his palms. And dodges an unforeseen blur of black, white and blue. The object—person—not even registering in his mind before he makes his sharp evade. And propels down the soggy field, kicking up mud as he goes, the wet dirt splashes against the back of his legs. Rain pellets torrent his face and body and soak his green and white uniform. The freezing down-poor does absolutelynothing to cool him down. His body seems to be evaporating the harsh liquid the second it comes in contact with his smoldering skin. It's as if he's his own breathing sauna, cleansing him from the inside out. It's intoxicating.

John finds himself marveling at his stamina every now and again. As he pushes himself to the very limit, to the very edge, to the promised land. Only to find he has to stop and turn back, but that he can keep going. He feels unstoppable. Not even the slurring sods on his new team can get him down. The adrenaline licks through his veins as ice allows a minute extinguish. Making for a dizzying blend. He's loose and sharp, everything in a focused haze.

He pants once more, seeing a white cloud waft to eye-level and beyond, and thinks it's actually fire.

A shock of pain flares in his left flank, and he's tasting dirt. There's panting above him before it's receding down the field. John groans and gets up immediately, not caring for sitting out any longer than necessary. He was fine anyways, he hadn't spent his last five years at Bellmore High diddling about. Muscle mass had its perks.

"And that's a wrap!" Coach Cockroach yells from his position on the sidelines and underneath the bench's steel awning. Fucker-Kyle must have reached the line. "Now get to the showers before my poor mother starts hacking in her grave, you all smell like crap!"

John sighs at his antics. Coach was definitely ex-military, lucky him. His name didn't exactly leave much to the imagination but he still had his head. And chucks the filthy ball into the nearby, wire cart. The ball becoming just a ball again, and rolling back to its twins. Leaving John with a warm, bodily ache. He sniffs, skin still steaming pleasantly, and lifts the bottom of his shirt up to wipe down his face.

The boys recede, trading macho-word and shove one another in rough companionship.

John waits. Finally alone, save for the muted thunder rumbling above. Tilts his head back, and breathes in deeply, as deep as possible, filling his lungs to the brim and feeling his right lobes expand in time with his left ones. Smells the occluding rain dewing freshly mowed grass. Hears the blood humming in his ears grow quieter and quieter as his pulse calms. Then opens his eyes, the light shower peppers his lashes with droplets, but never gets farther. Granting him the sight of a splotchy grey sky, clouds darkening in places and lighter in others, slowly shifting above and below each-other like mother nature's gears.

John finally exhales, the action slow and comfortable, and stares as the white mist drifts into nothingness, the surrounding drizzle dwindling his fire. He closes his eyes at the sight, and keeps his head lilted back, skull rested on the first knob of his thoracic vertebrae. Allowing his insides a cold, sharp spike and heart a constricting twinge. He allows both for reasons unknown, reasons unnecessary to know. To just feel for the hell of feeling. Thunder crashes once more, this time it's closer, louder, fiercer. Making John's eyes flutter to a close, breath hitching at the reminder, and he feels the sky.