Changed the title because why not
"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools, the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more."
Sherlock groans and rolls over on his side. He's lying on a grassy hill, far upon the outskirts of the campus, where no one else typically went. He would have been alone if John hadn't followed him all the way from biology. This had become the norm for the two of them. Sherlock laying somewhere and trying to take a nap while John sits besides him reading Shakespeare because it's apparently unsightly that one could live their life without even knowing who he was.
"It is a tale old by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffs. "Please stop. I'm dying. I'm slowly dying, this horrid excuse for literature is drowning me, please, please I can't breathe."
John smacks him across the face with his soft cover of Macbeth, horribly offended. "There's no need for you to get all dramatic. And this is fine literature. The classics, the best of the best. Medical examination textbooks are not generally considered bestsellers, are they?"
Sherlock only grunts in response, burying his face into his elbow like he's shielding himself from another book attack.
"Now I can see why you're at this second-rate university," John points out.
Sherlock sits up abruptly to stare at John, raising a questioning eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Setting the book down upon the grass, John just shrugs nonchalantly. "I always wondered why you didn't go to Oxford or Cambridge or something of the sort. You've obviously a fantastic chemistry student. But then it hit me. You're not all that smart. You're rather stupid, actually."
"Well fuck you," Sherlock sneers.
"No, really," John tries to explain. "It really isn't intelligence if you just shift all of it to one corner of your brain. I'd say you have just an equal amount of intelligence as the rest of us, it's just that most of us spread our intelligence points over a variety of subjects, like literature and history, for instance."
Sherlock lets out a rude laugh. "Boring."
John looks at him, almost sadly. "Oh, Sherlock. I am going to educate you in ways you can't even imagine."
Sherlock's response is to lie down again and turn his body away from John. "Fantastic, I can't wait," he grumbles sarcastically.
I'm not gay, John keeps having to tell himself. I'm not gay because Harriet is gay and my parents will be devastated and I'll become an alcoholic just like her and that is not happening.
And yet, as the music blares loudly from the speakers and he runs into complete and total strangers, most of them not even sober enough to apologize, just the thought of meeting Sherlock here makes John's stomach twirl.
But alas, the peculiar chemistry major fails to show and John is forced to spend the duration of the party alone, mostly, when he isn't drunk and grinding up some chick because why the hell not.
He's in the middle of making out with some brunette when it dawns on him that this is actually a horrible thing to do. It's a Saturday night and he's here socializing-well, kind of-while Sherlock is stuck in his dorm probably reading some other boring textbook. On quantum mechanics, maybe. So he pushes the strange girl away, apologizes briefly, and ventures forth to look for Sarah.
He finds Clara instead, with a girl's hand hitched up her skirt. John only rolls his eyes and pretends nothing is happening as he calls out "Clara, tell Sarah and Mike I'm leaving."
Clara nods and then gives a little gasp, and John leaves perfectly knowing that Clara probably won't remember a damn thing.
Sherlock's dorm is just the building right next to John's. It's not too far from the party.
What he sees just outside the dorm is a sight to behold. Sherlock, standing there against the side of the building, engrossed in a conversation with someone who isn't John or even Lestrade. The other man is shorter, yet just as intimidating as Sherlock. John can't see his face, but his black hair is cut short and sharp. John also can't hear what they're saying, and he can't tell the nature of the conversation because Sherlock's face is just tight like any other conversation.
And then Sherlock gets slapped.
John gasps aloud, most obviously shocked by the sudden action. The unknown man having just struck Sherlock across the cheek, and Sherlock seemingly unreactant, his head turned in the direction in which he was struck. Whoever this man is, John does not like him.
And then long fingers curl around Sherlock's face, turning his head to face the mysterious man in an almost gentle manner, completely contradicting the man's previous actions.
And then just before John steps in to intervene, they're kissing. The other man is forcing his lips onto Sherlock and Sherlock isn't fighting back, and John's stomach does a somersault.
It isn't a very elaborate kiss, completely messy and generally unromantic, and John can't tell if Sherlock is enjoying it or not. The strange man's hand slips around the back of Sherlock's neck while Sherlock's arms just lay limp at his sides, like he's dead. Completely out of context, John might have identified the man as a necrophiliac.
At that moment, Sherlock's eyes lock onto John's. John, of course, panics. Sherlock makes no effort to acknowledge John, and instead just stands there and stares like there isn't a middle man between them currently sucking Sherlock's lips off.
John should leave. He really should. He should turn around and run away and pretend he hadn't seen anything. He has no right to interfere with Sherlock's personal business. Yet at the same time he feels like he should punch the hell out of whoever was currently kissing Sherlock.
Speaking of, the man suddenly seems wary of his surroundings and breaks away from his kiss to crane his head around. John watches as the hand around the back of Sherlock's neck slowly creeps its way around Sherlock's throat, and the man's eyes are instantly locked onto John's. John can see Sherlock's entire body tighten at the feeling of the hand around his throat, not suffocating him, but there all the same.
The man smiles at John-no, smirks-like nothing had happened. He doesn't even need to speak for John to get the warning in his eyes. That tell-a-soul-and-I'll-skin-you-and-wear-you-as-a-coat smile. And with the message being loud and clear, his hand retreats from Sherlock's throat and he walks away straight and dignified.
John, mouth gaped wide open, focuses his attention on Sherlock, who is stiff and still as stone. His face is completely expressionless as always, and John can't tell if he's embarrassed or angry or even upset.
John has to swallow before he speaks, like just watching that entire scene had drained all the liquid from his throat. "Are…" he clears his throat and begins again, his voice softer again. "Are you…okay?" He's almost hesitant to ask.
Sherlock doesn't respond for the longest time, his eyes cold and fixated on John like John is the one at fault. Like John is the one who slapped him and shoved his tongue down Sherlock's throat. But then Sherlock's lips move, ever so slightly, to voice the words "don't worry about me."
John takes a step forward. "You shouldn't let him push you around like that."
"It's okay, he's my boyfriend."
John raises an eyebrow, slightly surprised, less about the fact that Sherlock has a boyfriend and more about the fact that Sherlock is capable of maintaining any sort of relationship period whether it be romantic or platonic. "Is he really?"
"No."
Oh.
And then Sherlock turns to head into the dorm building. John licks his lips nervously because he doesn't want Sherlock to go. He wants to know more. He wants to understand everything about Sherlock and that man and who he is and what they are and just everything. He wants to know Sherlock's favorite color and what genre of music he listens to and whether he plays an instrument and if he had any pets when he was younger. Every time he approaches Sherlock with the intent of making friends he is brushed away coldly. Within the weeks since John had taken up the challenge of befriending Sherlock, the only thing he had learned is that Sherlock doesn't understand how the brain work and he doesn't know who Lewis Carroll is.
Sherlock walks up to the entrance of his dorm, and he can feel John's gaze still on him. At that point, he sighs. After a moment, he speaks again. "You…can come in. If you want, that is."
John's never ran faster in his life.
Sherlock's room is, surprisingly or maybe not, a terrible mess. John is actually quite horrified to see that the rumors are true and he does keep human eyeballs on his shelves. Where he gets them, John doesn't really want to know. There's only one available bed, and a mountain of clothes occupies the space where the second one should be. John figures Sherlock had tossed out that bed to make room for his mess, probably because no one ever dares to room with him in the first place. There's a faint smell that John can only classify as marijuana. He's actually quite disappointed to confirm the fact that Sherlock uses recreational drugs. In his room, no less.
"Who was that man?" John asks, never being one to beat around the bush.
Sherlock removes his coat and tosses it across a chair. "Jim Moriarty."
John half-expects Sherlock to give more info on their relationship, but when it's clear Sherlock won't say another word, he intervenes again. "And the two of you…?"
"We…dated-sort of-in secondary school," is Sherlock's response. He walks into the tiny kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. John watches, intrigued, as he gulps the liquid down with a grimace on his face, like he's trying to wash away any lingering taste of Jim Moriarty upon his lips.
"And he goes to uni here?"
"Oh, no. He's graduated already. Snuck onto campus to tell me he's leaving for America tomorrow morning, that's all. Good riddance."
It dawns on John that Jim might be that abusive boyfriend he had heard so little about. He had always thought that rumor untrue, that Sherlock was too smart to get himself involved with anyone who could potentially be labeled as abusive, or that he was too smart to stick around once finding out. He had this idealistic vision of Sherlock being a perfect virgin, too skittish to even hold hands much less date.
John presses his lips into a thin line. "Did he…" he has to swallow hard again. "Did he hurt you?"
There's a pause. And then Sherlock looks around his kitchen. "I apologize, I don't have any food to offer you. I rarely eat in here. I hope you're not particularly starving."
Sherlock's evasiveness itself answers the question, but John doesn't push the conversation. "Oh no, I'm fine. Absolutely fine. No need. Some water would be nice, though."
Sherlock doesn't hesitate to pour John a glass of water.
They sit across from each other at the small kitchen table, John awkwardly drinking his water with the full knowledge that Sherlock is glaring holes into him. Like he's looking into John's soul or something. The silence is deafening.
Eventually John feels like he's going to go mad if he doesn't say something, so he opens his mouth and says "nice night, isn't it?"
Sherlock almost laughs at John's pathetic attempt to strike conversation. "On the contrary."
"Oh, don't tell me you're one of those only-happy-when-it-rains types."
"Then I won't."
"Fucking hell."
Eventually, John ends up asleep on Sherlock's bed.
When John awakes, he is greeted by the smell of Sherlock and…cigarette smoke. There's a lovely tune ringing in his ears, and he soon realizes the source of the music. He peers over the side of the bed to reveal Sherlock sitting there with his back against the bed, legs crossed, with a lit cigarette in his mouth and a guitar in his lap.
John smiles sleepily. "Never took you for the instrumental type."
"I play when I'm thinking," Sherlock says without ever skipping a beat.
John sits up and stretches, realizing that he's still in his clothes from last night. Sherlock's changed of course, and from the color of his pants John has to wonder if his favorite color is purple.
"Breakfast?" John asks, more inviting Sherlock to eat with him rather than asking if Sherlock had any.
"I never eat breakfast," Sherlock answers.
John stands up and straightens out his outfit. "Well that's unhealthy."
"I've been told."
Just then, the door opens. John is actually quite startled, as if he and Sherlock had been caught in some sort of compromising position, and in a way they might as well have. Sherlock having over anybody who could stand to stay a whole night was probably as compromising as it gets.
Sherlock doesn't even seem to be bothered by the intruder, instead focusing on his guitar playing.
"Sherlock," a male voice calls. "Molly Hooper came by my dorm today and dropped off a pie for you. I swear to god that girl is hopelessly in lo-." The voice freezes as soon as the man catches sight of John.
"Not interested, Lestrade" Sherlock says completely in monotone. But it seems like the intruder isn't even cares about Sherlock's response as much as he cares about who the hell this bloke is and what he's doing in Sherlock's room.
"Oh my god," the man gasps, and John can now recognize him as Gregory Lestrade, forensic science major and son of a big deal DI at Scotland Yard. The man more commonly known as the closest thing Sherlock Holmes as to a friend. "They've given you another one?" He turns to John, and John can see that Lestrade thinks he's Sherlock's new roommate based on the sorry look in Lestrade's eyes. "Oh I'm so sorry for anything this cheeky bastard has done to you. If you want to transfer I completely understand. I'll help in any way I can."
John almost laughs. He can just picture Lestrade apologizing to anyone unfortunate enough to room with Sherlock. "No need, I came out of my own free will."
Lestrade's face twists with disbelief. "Oh god, really?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes and stops playing, setting his guitar upon the ground and standing himself up. "Yes, Lestrade. We both got piss drunk at a party yesterday and ended up shagging like rabbits all night long."
John is absolutely mortified, and apparently, so is Lestrade. He takes the opportunity to explain "he's lying. That's completely false. Don't listen to a damn word he says."
Lestrade laughs. "Don't worry, this bloke lost all his credibility years ago. I wouldn't believe him if he called at two am saying he'd been raped and mugged in an alleyway."
"I've got half a mind to get myself raped and mugged in an alleyway just to make you feel horrid," Sherlock sneers. "Maybe murdered."
"I'd piss on your grave."
John is actually rather surprised at the seemingly domestic scene. He's never seen Sherlock act so…friendly towards someone. Or, as friendly as Sherlock could possibly be. He can actually feel jealousy spark within him towards Lestrade. He wonders how long Lestrade had had to have pushed to get the antisocial Sherlock Holmes to befriend him like this.
Sherlock checks the watch on his wrist. "I've got class. The two of you just head out whenever convenient." He obviously didn't care much about leaving two men behind in his dorm room. Perhaps he trusted them not to steal anything. Perhaps he didn't care. Or perhaps he knew all his personal belongings were mortifying and nobody would be compelled to steal them anyways.
When Sherlock exits the room, John and Lestrade stand there awkwardly.
Lestrade is the first one to make a move. He holds out his hand for John to take. "Greg Lestrade. Sherlock's personal bodyguard."
"John Watson," John introduced himself as he grabs Lestrade's hand and they firmly shake. "And, bodyguard?"
Lestrade shrugs. "Someone needs to beat up anybody who makes trouble with him."
John raises an eyebrow. "Which is often?"
"More often that you think," Lestrade laughs. He then holds out a plastic bag toward John. The pie, John suspects. "Uh, here. I'm not one for sweets, and god knows it'll go to waste in Sherlock's hands-the dick won't eat a thing unless someone's shoving it down his throat-but maybe you'll make do with it."
John takes the bag gratefully. "Thanks."
"So, who are you?" Lestrade questions. He's obviously as intrigued by John's presence and John was about his. It appears that both of them had no idea Sherlock was capable of befriending someone other than them.
John clears his throat. "Uh, just a friend, I suppose."
Lestrade sucks in a breath, like he's almost disappointed. "I wouldn't try getting involved with Sherlock."
"Why?" John asks. He's tired of everyone saying the same thing. Don't get close. Don't be friends. Why, why, why? Why is Sherlock so destined to be alone?"
Lestrade shakes his head. "Trying to be mates with Sherlock is like being best buddies with the devil. A friendship like that will ruin you. God knows it's ruined me and he doesn't even consider me a friend." John's about to say something, but Lestrade interrupts. "Well, of course, I'm in no position to tell you how to live your life. And of course you know, Sherlock thinks he's doing just fine on his own, and in a way he is. But a lifestyle like that will be the death of him own day. He's all about self-destruction, you see. I once walked in on him burning cigarettes into his skin. He said it made him feel alive. I said it was psychotic. I thought he was a psychopath. Still do, actually."
"I don't mind that," John explains. "I'm with you on that. That Sherlock needs a friend to stop him from doing shit like that."
"Well then," Lestrade begins, nodding his head once. "Welcome to hell."