This recent attachment to John, Sherlock had been reliably informed, would be the undoing of him.
Of course he disputed it; as though he would allow anyone to have the singular sort of power and influence over him that would imply they could get at the base of him, much less impact him negatively on a long-term basis. The very idea of it was absurd, preposterous enough that it made him smile; not kindly, nor happily, but as he shifted slides beneath his microscope, he had a moment of cold, subdued humor. As Mycroft would say, the likelihood of anyone getting beneath his skin was just as slim as him having anything resembling a real friend - and it was all his own fault, as well, given how harshly and thoroughly he pushed away anyone who attempted to get close.
Not that many did. For all the masses were unimaginative and stupid, they were remarkably quick to detect their presence as unwanted, and rather than doggedly pursue a friendship that required work, they often quickly turned to censure and ridicule. That was fine by Sherlock's standards, as it left him well enough alone for the majority of the time, but there was no denying that it gave Mycroft a... smug bit of satisfaction.
Mouth drawing down at the corners, he exhaled slowly through his nose. He did hate to give Mycroft satisfaction. This, he told himself, above all other reasons, was why he was actually somewhat looking forward to his brother inflicting his infuriating, largely unwelcome presence on Sherlock; he could produce John: simple, normal, nigh unflappable John, as proof positive that he had a friend. Oh, the look on Mycroft's face would be priceless, at least once he realized that John wasn't some thick sod that he'd palmed some money off to in order to deceive his brother. When he realized the friendship was genuine (or as genuine as a friendship with Sherlock could become) he would be forced to spend a fair bit of time eating crow.
Wouldn't be a hardship. Mycroft did so love to eat. He wondered how many pounds he'd gained since his last visit? He adjusted the fine focus, watching the paramecium blur in and out of distinction, and wagered on close to ten pounds. Life was stressful, and the holidays were approaching, after all; Mummy would be, well, being Mummy. And Mycroft, being the elder brother and the one who gave a damn about those sorts of things, would be bending over backward to try to please her.
So unfortunate that he was a stress eater. He could barely contain his gleeful smile at the thought.
The door to the lab opened and closed, but Sherlock didn't bother to look up. There was no class period scheduled, and because he was generally on good terms with the science department as a whole no one really cared if he utilized the equipment. He was very careful with it, and when he wasn't careful he disposed of the evidence with enough skill to keep his name (relatively) clean, so there was no worry.
"Would you pass me a pen?" He asked, drawing his lower lip under the top row of his teeth as he adjusted the focus further, bringing the vacuole into stunning clarity. There was so much here - such a beautiful, complex, fascinating arrangement of organelles - and yet it was all contained inside one cell. So easily overlooked. Such a waste when it was.
The voice that responded to him didn't belong to John, and for reasons he was not willing to examine (pointless effort at the time; better things to focus on) his stomach pitched, settled somewhere approximately three centimeters below where it ought to have rested.
"Do you ever leave the lab? I mean, honestly."
"Sebastian." He flicked his gaze toward his classmate, expression falling into the detached lines of politeness that he reserved for Sebastian and his cohorts. It wasn't out of respect for them - the drudgery was simply over faster when he didn't react much. "Do you need something?"
Sebastian Wilkes, while Sherlock's age and one of the few people who spoke to him regularly without attempting to pound him, was not Sherlock's friend. Not really. He had considered him a friend in a peripheral sense, as Sebastian was one of the first people he'd met on campus and they'd managed to interact without either of them willing bodily harm on the other, but he'd come to realize that was a poor basis for a friendship. When he had John to compare others to, he saw how immensely lacking his interpersonal relationships had been prior.
He wasn't certain if that was a good thing or not. He would never advocate willful ignorance, but then, he didn't really require friendship, and now that he knew the majority of his relationships were insufficient, he was faced with an aggravating situation. He could either improve all of his relationships to have a more well-rounded, satisfactory collection (dull, time-consuming, not worth the effort, would only result in ridicule and suspicion) or he could focus on the strongest relationship he had at the moment and ensure that it did not fail (the logical route, given that it would take the least amount of time and effort on his part). His choice was obvious.
Sebastian rested his hip against the edge of the table, arms crossed casually. "We're going for a bender. Interested?"
Ugh, he thought, which was probably the most inelegant and ineloquent thing that had crossed his mind in weeks. Why Sebastian insisted on inviting him to these was beyond him; he never enjoyed himself, and never added anything to the atmosphere. In fact, his very presence was always unforgivable, given that he never indulged in drink and could later recall with perfect clarity exactly what had happened (and who had shagged whom) during their drunken escapades. Having a long memory was apparently a damning offense, and surely Sebastian knew that.
Eying him shrewdly, Sherlock decided that he certainly did know that. More than likely, Sebastian was eager to have Sherlock along for his observational skills; gathering blackmail material? Were he a betting man, he would take the odds. He would not be used as a tool, or a party favor, whichever his friend intended.
"Thank you, but no. I can think of exactly four hundred and twenty-nine different ways I would rather spend my evening." So saying, he scooted back, chair scraping along the linoleum. Well, that had been an ugly noise. "If there's nothing else?"
Sebastian laughed, and the noise was grating; God, it was grating. "I wish you were joking, but I don't want to provoke you into actually listing all of them off. Though I do wonder..."
Sherlock's shoulders tensed, fractionally.
"How many of those involve John Watson? Thick as thieves lately, aren't you?" Sebastian, for all he was an arrogant, simple-minded sod, was remarkably keen on just where to hit a person to make it sting. His clever way of phrasing things politely, sometimes even as an indulgent joke, generally kept him in others' good graces rather than the opposite, but Sherlock saw right through it. "That's nice. Watson is a stand-up fellow. Very shocking about that girlfriend of his, poor bloke."
He didn't know precisely why, but the idea of Sebastian speaking about John made him uneasy. Uneasy? Perhaps a bit... angry. Yes, a little bit annoyed, a little bit disgusted. What right did Sebastian have to comment on any part of John Watson's life, personal or otherwise? They didn't even talk, moved in circles so wholly separate that it was almost a point of pride for Sherlock, though he couldn't have said why.
Honestly, all this uncertainty regarding John Watson was really starting to agitate him.
"Yes, well." Sherlock rose, brushing his hands down the front of his shirt as he did. "We're friends."
"Friends?" Sebastian asked, with a pompous eyebrow arch. God, even the man's voice was oily; how had Sherlock ever even marginally considered him a friend?
"Yes. Friends." Irritated, Sherlock brushed past his classmate, reaching for his peacoat. He jabbed his arms through the sleeves, mouth tight and petulant, as Sebastian chuckled. "It is humanly possible, Sebastian, for me to have a normal friendship. I simply don't indulge often."
Pausing by the doorway, he cast one last look at Sebastian's smug face, and a horrible feeling rose up in his throat. Before he could spew venom and purge himself of it, however, the door swung open, and none other than the topic of their conversation come bustling in.
"Sorry, got held up, you ready to-ah, sorry, am I interrupting?" John's brow furrowed, eyes passing between Sherlock and Sebastian before settling on the former.
Mortification swelled in place of his previous ire, because even if John wasn't very observant, surely even he couldn't miss the rigid set of Sherlock's posture, the tenseness of his jaw, the disconnected angle between his hips and shoulders. It would be obvious he was somewhat bothered, and he hated admitting that, hated being on display for even a moment. Damn Sebastian, and damn John for his inopportune arrival.
"Oh no, we were just finished. Tried inviting Sherlock out, but, well." Sebastian smiled at John, thin lips stretched over disproportionately large teeth. Needed orthodontic work. "You know how it is."
Surprisingly, though the move was subtle, John angled himself toward Sherlock; in fact, Sherlock doubted he even noticed he did it. "Well, of course he can't go; we've plans. Nice of you to offer, though," he added, smiling with far too many teeth showing.
Not a normal smile. John's smiles were subtle, generally slow-building and only ever really showing the top row of teeth. This, then, was not a kind smile, but that much was obvious, wasn't it; the muscles around his eyes were tight, and his right hand was halfway balled to a fist.
Sebastian simply shrugged, and Sherlock muttered, "Let's be off, John."
To Sebastian and Sherlock's mutual surprise, John reached out and curled his fingers around Sherlock's elbow, leading him out of the labs and into the hallway.
Though Sherlock was a bit pleased, he was also embarrassed, and that prompted him to reclaim his arm and turn his nose up. "I know the way, John."
After a few moments of awkward silence, John said, "Sorry."
Disappointment furled in his stomach, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, rather haughtily, he asked, "For?"
John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's face, but he just smiled a bit and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Saying we're busy for the evening? Leading you out by the elbow? I didn't mean to be rude, I just... don't like that prat."
Sherlock snorted, tucking his face into his shoulder to hide the smile blooming. "Well, you're welcome to your opinions," was all he said, which wasn't really an expression of gratitude.
John smiled, though, so Sherlock thought he got the idea.