A/Note: Thanks CT-6116 for favoriting my story on the last chapter. For some reason the reviews are showing up a day later in this site. So thanks also to everybody that are following and posting guests reviews. I'm just chuffed you're enjoying it. :D

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6. Bedroom access

He only agreed to it because he had been curious as to what John's bedroom would look like. By seeing it he could learn a lot about him. Plus access implies intimacy. John already said he considered Sherlock his best friend. And yes, he wanted to see it because-. He wasn't sure why he wanted to see it or what exactly that would accomplish, except that it was already more than he had ever dreamed, to be there, to see it. To be part of John's life.

As he climbed the stairs behind John he tried not to look up, but stare at his own feet instead. He could already feel his stomach acting up funny.

'Don't mind the mess,' John said as he went in.

The room was small, but sunny and bright, and actually neat and clean. The "mess" consisted of a few shoes thrown in a corner and a few shirts folded over the back of a chair. The most obvious thing was the amount of books crammed into such a small room. There was a short and packed bookcase with its back facing the foot of the bed with his rucksack sitting on top. There were books on the desk, on the bedside table and on shelves above the desk, as well as above the dresser, attached to the wall.

The walls were a pale yellow, the curtains white and a bit see-through, so the afternoon sun made the room cosy and a bit warm. All the furniture was mismatched, in medium to dark wood. Inherited from grandparents. The bed sat opposite to the door, alongside the wall and under the window. It had a dark finish, a simple headboard with a curved top and end posts capped with a decorative finial. His duvet was a plain light green coverlet, and the bed was actually made. Not just made, it was so crisply made it almost looked like he had pressed everything.

Next to the door, there was a small and modern faux wood desk with metal tubes as legs. Its surface, just like the rest of the room, was very organised. It had an old computer, a football team mousepad and a rugby plastic cup with pens and pencils in it, plus a few of his school books in a neat pile. The chair was an old migrant from a former dinning room. The bin had some school work and used tissues in it, causing the hair on his nape to rise. Next to it, an old dresser with more books on top. The bedside table had a lamp, a pile of three books (the top one a mystery novel) and a box of tissues (which he tried to ignore). There was a closet door by the entry. On what was left of shelf-free walls, there were football and rugby posters of John's favourite teams, showing muscular men running or scoring goals. He turned around and saw John studying him, a smile as if asking, "what do you think?"

'I didn't know you had such a voracious appetite for reading. One can tell a lot about a person by the books on their shelves.' And their trash. And what they put on their walls.

'What can I say? I love reading. Have a seat, I'll show you the outfits and you can vote,' he opened the (equally organised) closet.

'Fine,' Sherlock sighed, feigning boredom. He looked at some of the titles on the nearest shelf. All the books were from second hand stores. Many of them were mystery books, some sci-fi, some spy novels, quite a few about war history and weapons, but most of them were classics of literature. Definitely not what he would've expected before getting to know John. Then he looked at the shelves above the dresser. He saw many books about Science in general, but also, Biology, Genetics, First Aid, Microbiology, Infectious Diseases? There was one book in particular that caught his attention, though. He stood up and pulled it out. It was an old beat-up second (more like fifth) hand copy of Gray's Anatomy. He leafed through it, then looked up at John. Whose forehead was rapidly shifting.

'Why would you have this book?' Oh, how could I have missed it? 'You want to be a doctor! Our first day of school you were running a diagnose on me.'

'Yeah. That's why I work as much as I can during Summers. Also, that's why my parents work second jobs, so both of us can go to Uni. My Gran says she'll help me with what she can too, but it won't be much.'

'Always something!' Sherlock muttered, tilting his head in a small shake.

'Huh?'

'You've never told me that.'

'Well, it hasn't come up in the conversations, that's all. How about you? Do you know what you want to do?'

'Not sure yet. I like Chemistry, but I wouldn't follow an academic career - I have no patience for teaching -, research seems too boring, and a regular eight-to-five-job too stifling.'

'Well, what do you like to do? Aside from learning survival skills?'

'Mostly, I like solving puzzles and conquering challenges. I don't mean jigsaw puzzles, but mental ones, where you have to think and use logic to solve them. I enjoy being able to know all there is to know about an individual using only visual cues.'

'Yeah, I've noticed that.'

Sherlock thought he detected apprehension in his tone. But then John said brightly, 'All right, outfit number one!'

They heard the door downstairs open and slam shut. 'Johnnyyyy!'

John cursed under his breath. It was his sister Harriet and, from the way she had spoken and the sound of her steps, she wasn't sober.

'Hey Johnny, can I- ooh, what are you doing here? You've graduated from backyard to bedroom, huh?' Her speech was slurred and, from where he stood, Sherlock could smell the liquor in her breath.

'Harry, it's only four in the afternoon!' John said.

'So? The night is young, then. Hey, can I borrow twenty quid?'

'Sorry Harry, I need that for tonight. I have a date with Maggie.'

'Oooh, and I thought this here was your date already, sitting pretty in your bedroom, clothes strewn all over the bed...' she swayed and touched Sherlock's arm. He recoiled at the smell and her words.

John tugged her arm and pulled her gently away, 'Harry, I think you should stop for the day. Listen,' he put his hands on her shoulders, 'why don't you go have a shower?' He held her face protectively, to get her attention. 'Then you should take a nap.'

'Noo Johnny, don't be such a spoiler,' she pushed away. 'Just ten, then. Pleease?'

'No Harry, I'm not helping you getting even more sloshed. That's not good.'

'You're such a spoiled brat, you know? Mum and dad always give you everything you ask for. What do I get? "Harry, why aren't you more like your brother? Harry, you're such a good-for-nothing".'

'They've never said that, Harry!'

'But that's what they think!' she yelled, pushing him again. 'All because of you, and your perfect behaviour, perfect grades, perfect life,' she swung her arm indicating the perfectly aligned books on the shelves, grouped not only by subject, but also size and authors. She turned and walked away, still yelling abuse.

John slammed the door. Sherlock contained a small intake of breath. Behind the door, there was a "Join the Army" poster. It featured handsome young recruits of all forces in dress uniforms, three men and one woman, saluting. John still had his hand flat on the door, then he sighed and turned. 'Sorry about that. She's not like this when she's sober, but... I hope this is just a phase.'

'I don't think it is and I don't believe you think it is either.'

'Yeah. You're right.' He sighed, 'Agh, I just wished there was something I could do, you know?'

'It's her choice whether or not to seek help, John.'

'I know. But she's still my sister.'

Sherlock waited a few seconds, then asked. 'Why that poster? You're not thinking of joining the army, are you?'

'Well, to be honest, I was. A while back. I still haven't decided.'

'I thought you had issues against soldiers.'

'Not in general. Just one.'

Sherlock couldn't think of anything other than a direct approach. 'May I ask what happened?'

'You may, but I just don't want to talk about it right now.'

The door downstairs slammed again, rattling the entire house.

'Right now, clothes!' He brightened a little too forcedly.

...

Sherlock lay in bed awake that night, trying not to think of John's first time with a girl.

He still couldn't tell whether or not John had a preference, or if he was bisexual or if anything had actually happened with Allan. Given the posters on his walls, well, it was a possibility. He wondered if there was a correlation between them and the used tissues. Even though the bedroom screamed of straight testosterone-rich masculinity, there was also the ambiguous possibility of an appreciation for the male body. All the players, as the young recruits in the army's poster, were muscular, handsome, and most of them had dark hair.

Now that he had seen John's room and bed he had new material for his evenings.

.

A/Note: I found myself in that position before, dying to see someone's bedroom. Not sure what that would have accomplished except for feeling all warm and fuzzy for having seen it. Has anyone ever felt that way too? Let me know, drop me a line. :)