Ch 6
"Well, it's karma I suppose," said Molly, sneakily inserting a sandwich between an absentminded Sherlock's fingers, in the hope that he would eat something, "I told you not to wind the librarian up, didn't I?"
They were seated in the cafeteria during the lunch the next day as Molly continued to feed him little bits of cucumber and mayonnaise sandwich as an experiment. Some people stared weirdly at the two of them and tried not to come across as staring at the eccentric couple. Most of them already pinned the two of them down as a steady couple, something which neither Sherlock nor Molly bothered to deny anymore, seeing that it was such a widespread and unchangeable notion. Molly was always anxious about Sherlock being called her boyfriend, but Sherlock just brushed it away, coming across as oblivious and making Molly do the double duty of feeling awkward.
There were no words to express how Sherlock had felt when Dr. Watson had asked him to find another place for studying. The overly exaggerated concept of 'being gobsmacked' would be a proper start. He had never been so spectacularly wrong about anything—or anyone for that matter. He wasn't used to being wrong. And he hoped Molly didn't come to know about it. He knew that if she did, it would mean a misinterpretation of the rejection on epic proportions and subsequent signing up for a subscription of a dozen boxes of tissue paper and cookies every week.
Not to mention, more enlightening kitty tales.
Apart from that, irritation had been the predominant emotion that Sherlock had felt. The librarian had revoked his newly-issued card for sweet revenge, the cafeteria was always noisy and there was always something or the other going on in the open air theatre, and plus it was a famous haunt for addicts and noise-loving people and he wasn't going to go near them unless he needed something (other than coke). Not that Sherlock couldn't study in a noisy environment, it was just he hated handling that much amount of stupidity. Grounds was off-limits too, after the incident that had happened to one of the freshmen who had got hit by a football right in the face, and Sherlock did not want a broken nose, thank you very much. And of course, nowhere near a tree, because of its inhabitants above on the branches.
Empty classrooms were the sweetest deal, but Molly refused to go away anywhere without Sherlock and now with the tests almost over and the freshers parties approaching, her so-called "friends" had begun to desert her to hang out with someone who was cooler than Molly Hooper. And with Sherlock with her in a classroom, she refused to shut the door (as if he would do anything, he told her several times but decided to respect her limits when she seemed reluctant). And of course, because of what had happened last year, which involved some of their year people, as a lame joke, locking them in a room till the next class arrived, they vowed never to sit in a free classroom again.
There was one thing that Sherlock loved: going and sitting in an upperclassmen's class and learning what was being taught there. But no other teacher would allow him because they feared what he could glean about their lives by just one look and they were very keen to avoid any rumours about themselves. Although Sherlock often enjoyed being thought of as someone who shouldn't be crossed, right now it wasn't exactly working to his advantage.
Professor Watson was his beacon of light, to put it in Sherlock's dramatic manner. And now, it was gone, because he had been hasty and wrong about the professor's apparently very chaste intentions towards him. Why were real professors such stuck-up prudes? Why couldn't they be more like in porn?
"Wasn't my fault," said he brusquely, shoving the sandwich angrily into his mouth as Molly stared at him in amazement for eating during the recess break. "The collections of texts in the library IS subpar. I was only doing them a favour by pointing it out. If anything, they should've thanked me."
"It's not subpar," she maintained, "You could say the same for a school library, but not St. Bart's, Sherlock. It's got one of the best collection of books on forensic science and pathology. If anything, you could've used a better excuse."
Sherlock pouted, looking utterly scandalised, "I did not! Anyway, stop advertising about the university."
Something was wrong and Molly knew it. Not because Sherlock was being more of a drama queen than last week, when all she saw of Sherlock was at his place and in his shared classes with her and she often wondered where Sherlock loitered around. Now, her experiment on Sherlock with eating was in its last stage. Consciously or not, Sherlock hated food. On top of that, Sherlock hated cucumber, declaring it an abomination for having no taste at all.
"Sherlock?" she called his name tentatively as he watched a short blond man smiling politely, a little bit tetchily to his fellow professors, away from him, without him. He gave no indication that he had heard her, but she carried on in a soft voice nonetheless, hoping he hadn't kept her on semi-permanent mute, "Is there something you want to tell me?"
Sherlock tore his eyes away from Dr. Watson to Molly. She always knew. How did she always know?
"Urgh, no," He replied, disgusted at Molly treating him like one of her girl friends whilst trying to ignore the absurd, irrational heaviness in his chest. Somehow, Professor Watson looked even better when he laughed than he did last week. And he would have to wait till Thursday to get into his class. Because he was now not allowed to be alone with him in a class.
"Why do you suddenly want to go to library then? You do remember that you're not allowed, don't you?" she asked, pouring over a new book she had borrowed this morning. Sherlock had cast a look over the promising text and declared it the doom of forensic sciences. In return for his concern and kindness, Molly had not deigned to write notes for him in Organic Chemistry, and Sherlock had been asked to get out of class with a lame excuse of "disturbing the environment with his usual antics". As he loitered around in the corridor leading to the inorganic chemistry lab 2, Professor Watson had come through, and Sherlock had found himself wishing mentally to whoever cared to have a look inside his mind for Professor Watson to remove his glasses so that he could see those marvellous blue eyes, eyes that burnt with a fire but almost doused by the drudgery of life and seemed to unconsciously glow at the sight of Sherlock just the previous week.
But Professor Watson had simply swept past him, regarding him as any ordinary student, no emotion betraying his face. Not that he saw his face; instead he had felt a strange mixture of pride and embarrassment at being made to kicked out of class even though the man wouldn't know of it. His mind had screamed to him to stop Professor Watson and say the next thing that came up in his mind, even tell him that Lombard had kicked him out again and have Watson ask him how and why with his trademark amused/kind smile, but he found that he couldn't. Instead he simply looked down at his trainers, waiting for him to pass through and then letting his gaze linger on his retreating figure.
"I need books," he replied absentmindedly, but Molly translated it easily. Sherlock never really needed or even liked books. He loved labs much more, preferring to the learn things all by lonesome.
"I mean, what happened with Professor Watson? You were, like, practically invisible the last week, probably hanging out with your crush, but this week—"
He winced, "I don't "hang out", Molly. And stop saying crush!" he chided, "It's childish."
She snorted, "Well, you are childish."
He shot her a look and she recoiled numbly, "Well, okay. You need to go to the library. Because they've got books, and you don't have a single one. That's your excuse, isn't it?"
"It's not an excuse. I don't have any books because I really don't need the course," Sherlock reminded her with a face and a shrug and proceeded to watch Dr. Watson again. Molly thought it a wonder that no one had noticed till now that her "boyfriend" was interested in a professor, "so much as the equipment here. I can learn the exam-relevant portions all on the last day, you know that."
"So why go to the library?" Molly pressed on, "Go to the labs, learn it all in there. There's a test on Friday, but. . ." she trailed off, knowing that that couldn't be a problem for Sherlock. It made sense after all, in the context of Sherlock's apparent disregard for a sciences undergraduate's harsh timetable.
Sherlock let out a sigh and brought a cigarette to his lips, lighting it with precision even though his eyes were still focussed on the professor. Molly let out a small grunt of protest, at which Sherlock only mouthed "babysitter".
"Where do you propose I spend the free hour then? Being bored?!" Sherlock snapped, and Molly beat into her protective shell that tried to deflect the full force of Sherlock's dominating nature, "The cafeteria? The grounds? Classroom? The infamous Make-out Point?"
The penny finally dropped, "Oh! Sherlock, please, please, for God's sake, don't tell me you—"
"—got myself kicked out from another place?" Sherlock completed for her as blandly as possible, "Yes I did."
"That you did something stupid," Molly gestured at Professor Watson, "Did you ask him. . ." she practically scanned the entire five-mile radius around her before she spoke further in a voice that ought to be reserved for Simpson, "out?"
Sherlock did not reply, simply huffed out a smoke cloud. Molly sighed, "You did not."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Stop talking like a slice. It's beneath me, talking about. . . people."
"Even Professor Watson?"
The corner of his lips curled indignantly and Molly cracked up at that, "He's your teacher, Sherlock," she said weakly.
Sherlock wanted to say that loads of teachers had affairs with their students but refrained from saying that, for the sake of Molly's sanity. And besides, he did not ask him out. He had simply made an offer that John Watson had rejected at once. The man was too bloody moral. And too straight. He probably considered Sherlock only a deranged, depraved maniac and himself the mature adult to make him "See The Light".
"No you can not pretend that you're the Queen and sulk at that, Sherlock," she said and Sherlock turned away, tuning her words out of his system even though she was correct, had been right all along.
"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly. He didn't tune that out.
The entire scene of Sherlock not-so-secretly watching Professor Watson while smoking fag looked like a greaser movie right out of the 50's where the leather-wearing guy watched the country prude with acute hunger in his eyes. Any moment, the prude would look in the leather's direction and catch his eye warily, interestedly.
That did not happen.
She took the fall, tried one last experiment on him to accurately judge his mental health. Mycroft had taught her this because apparently, Sherlock, being Mr. Punchline, always replied to everything. Sherlock always replied to this, and the whatever she got were an accurate representation.
"I'm sad, Sherlock," said she, "Tell me a story."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, " Once there was a very stupid Geoffrey Lestrade."
She withdrew instantly, frowning at him, wanting to tell him that it was Gregory and that he was her boyfriend so he better stop insulting him, but before she could say anything he started off again, "He was so stupid that everyone died. End of story."
With that he walked out of there after having finished his cigarette, leaving behind a bemused Molly and a half-eaten sandwich. She tried to recall the last time Sherlock had been like this over a person. Never. Sherlock didn't even know that many people during his school life except those he scored his hit-offs from. Something was definitely wrong. She knew Sherlock was a little sensitive when it came to rejection, he always had been, even as a teenager when he interacted with his peers. Drugs had always been a circle in where he was accepted, and Sherlock took to it, took to the foul acquaintances back then. . .
She watched his retreating figure, and then shoved her books into her bag, and the sandwich into her mouth, following his direction.
John was aware.
John was more than aware that he was being watched.
And he was also aware who was watching him.
He bit into a sandwich as his colleagues around him sipped coffee and attacked the food voraciously as if they didn't eat the same thing every day. All he contributed to the conversation was a polite smile and a "yes, you're right" and "oh, sure" whether he listened or not. Years of sharing his life with an irritating and dramatic younger sibling who loved the sound of her own voice far too much had taught him that skill well. He realised that he was sitting such that he could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and he corrected his posture without trying to think much of it.
He concentrated on his coffee and his impression on all those who were sitting around them. The youngest of his colleagues was Abbott, who was of course, more than thirty five. In such a clique, John, barely thirty, couldn't help but feel left out. He didn't fit in. He had no idea about wife or kid talks. He had no idea who 'Brook' or 'Murdoch' were, since those names were popular with the staff. He knew the way his colleagues looked down upon him as young and inexperienced. He felt like there was a hole somewhere in him that had been filled the few past weeks, but now it was gaping open and was making John think about all that he didn't want to think of.
He could sense Sherlock getting up and leaving, and that Hooper girl hurrying after him. Sherlock had said that she was not his girlfriend. But the way she kept feeding him all the time made her come across as one. Or like she harboured a secret crush on him.
For only a few weeks, John thought he had found his fit in the whole of university. People were either younger or older than him. Granted, Sherlock was—must be—nearly ten years younger than him (and to think that John was ten and had already had his first real kiss with Taylor Wedell when Sherlock was an infant barely able to hold his head up!), and he wasn't exactly normal, but there was no one else John had felt more comfortable with. Sherlock was a. . . good kind of not-normal. John liked that, the way he didn't even try to hide his not-normalness from others.
Until he pulled off that shit with him.
John felt himself shivering in his sat at the memory. He easily blamed it on the cruel late Autumn breeze. It had all been nice and lovely before Sherlock had hinted at them screwing around, and now John couldn't stop thinking about it.
He felt confused, and extremely at edge. He was supposed to be grossed at even the slightest hint that he'd like to. . . touch another man in that way. But he. . . wasn't. Was he one of those unfortunate people who realised that they were gay after they had spent fifty years of their life married and with ten children and hundred grandchildren? He hoped not. He knew he wasn't. He had seen naked men more times than he could recall. He had never had any erotic stirrings for them.
"You got your papers?" came a voice. John banished his thoughts to a far corner of his mind and looked up. He glanced at every single of his colleagues. Oh, wouldn't they love to know what John was thinking of? Or who he was thinking of.
"Oh yeah," Abbott was saying, "you know the worst part, getting answer sheets on a Friday and thinking that your whole weekend is ruined."
Several others chuckled. One of them patted on his back with a grunt of, "I know." John wasn't sure how to react to that.
"It was lovely two years ago. Make the MCQ paper, and feed it in the computer. No correcting," another said, "It's now double duty. Twenty plus two questions for internals, plus set the quizzes and projects so that no one could look it up in a book or on the internet. Make twenty two questions for thirty bloody marks! I could write a whole book based on the questions I've set till now!"
"Now now, don't you fret too much, Dr. Wilde," another said good-naturedly, "the freshers parties are almost here, and then U-Turn. It's practically dry season for us. No students to teach."
"Yeah, I'm thinking of going on a holiday. Somewhere quiet like Cornwall, yeah? Expel the London smog from your lungs!"
"No students to teach?" John's voice rose to almost a squeak. The others turned to look at the interrupter.
"Oh yes," Abbott began, "Watson's new here—"
And there it was again. New.
"—Actually, Watson, the freshers' is two weeks away and U-Turn after a month," he explained, "there'll literally be no students attending classes, except for some of those good ones who don't like enjoying."
John gaped at him. That—really? Oh, how John would've loved St. Bart's.
"Yeah," Abbott grinned, "Goin' on for decades. That's the level of discipline aroun' here. Speak up, and the Union will thrash you to death! Don't take the class and again, the Union will gun you down!"
"It's actually a good thing," another piped up, happy to eradicate John's ignorance about the complicacies of St. Bart's, "That way, the ones working on research and projects can spend more time while the labs and libraries are open for them. They don't have to take the stress of the routine."
"Well, not really good, those ones who don't like enjoyin'," said another, taking a large bite of a buttered scone, "we need to come to classes because of them otherwise they end up complaining to the Union. And the Union simply loves torturing the teachers, don't they?"
No one saw the tension in John's shoulders releasing. Even John didn't realise that immediately.
"That's why we've got the SBUTA, Dr. Cameron," Dr. Wilde said good-naturedly. "The Union can't do whatever it pleases. Speaking of which, there was this article in the Union newsletter. . ."
"Don't look so peaky, Watson," Abbott lowered his voice so that mostly John could hear him, "save it for later."
John blinked, "Pardon?"
"Holmes is sure to be there in your class. He isn't the sort who likes a good party."
John fought over the various responses that he could give, that didn't give away everything that he was beginning to have for Sherlock. As if John needed someone to inform him about that. But before he could say—or do—anything, another interrupted.
"He's got Holmes?"
"And hasn't run away screaming yet, like the last year with Boone," Abbott replied with a chuckle. John gave them all a weak smile, all of who looked at him with a newfound respect now. He wanted to say something in Sherlock's defence; he wasn't that bad of a bloke after all—but then, he was worse.
John bit into his sandwich to avoid replying as the rest of his colleagues found another topic to talk about—Holmes.
"How much time left, sir?" Molly's voice came out of nowhere. Sherlock finished working out the last question, went through the OMR sheet, and then spoke, in perfect sync with Simpson as he peered into his watch.
"Fifteen more minutes," Simpson and Sherlock drawled together as the former shot Molly a look that very well said write all you like, I will see about your grades even though this is MCQs. After that, Simpson added a grave "and ticking" after his words. Sherlock flashed an entirely insincere smile at the professor who had deigned to come to room number M07 as a humble invigilator wasting his precious time instead of tyrannising everyone with the permanent HoD post he held, probably just to ensure that Sherlock did not attempt any unfair means during his tests.
Or that's what Sherlock thought at least.
Oh please! It was only the internals. It didn't even make a difference, even if worst came to worst.
"Oh yes please," Simpson's voice boomed out of nowhere and the entire class, who were cheating from one another's papers, turned their heads in the direction of the speaker, "If you have to look into your neighbour's paper, go right ahead. Kindly be a little clandestine about it."
The class burst into laughter at the embarrassed offender. Even Sherlock smirked at that. He would've liked Simpson, if only he wasn't such a stuck-up old man obsessed with discipline even in university and if only he didn't destroy those who opposed him.
"Yes, yes, copy and cheat all you like, ladies and gentlemen," Simpson declared to everyone in general, "I'll see you all laughing during your projects and your vivas. And your trimester examinations."
At this, everyone went deadly quiet and resumed writing steadfastly.
Sherlock waited in his seat, impatient at his best and watching Molly furiously writing down the answers to the last three questions, which were usually subjective than MCQ. Simpson was parading around in the class, arms tucked behind his back and his two eyes on every other inhabitant of hall number M07. The senile had not passed around the attendance sheet yet, and it was the only thing still keeping Sherlock in his seat. It was truly a wonder why the always-so-strict-about-discipline professor was being so liberal today. Furtive whispers echoed around him, he heard several dozens of "Oi, Holmes" and "Molly, here!" and several others' names around them, but he paid no attention. Molly always looked conflicted when someone called her during a test. Sherlock always tried to make her understand that people were just taking advantage of her timidity and that she shouldn't give an arse about what they said or did, but she never really paid him any heed.
"Ten more minutes," Simpson declared, "those who've finished," at this, he pointedly looked at Sherlock, "may sign their attendance and leave rather than sit and prompt their friends."
Sherlock looked down at his paper, his eyes tracing out the black bubbles and the subjective answer script. With almost practiced precision, he slid off his chair and handed his paper to Dr. Simpson, unable to keep a smirk off his face. The two men gazed into each others' eyes like a pair of hungry lions before claiming their prey, and then Simpson abruptly turned away and put the paper face-down on the teachers' desk.
"The attendance," he reminded him. Sherlock wordlessly signed against his roll number and tucked in his half-chewed pen in his bag.
"May I leave, sir?"
Simpson glanced down at the sheet and spoke in his blandest, loathed-est voice, "Write down the roll numbers of those who sat next to you."
Sherlock stared at the man wordlessly, his mouth a bit open. Oh. . . clever, so that was why Simpson was being so liberal! He could only imagine the horror of those who would come to know of it at the end of the test.
With an almost concealed smirk, he wrote down Molly's and another nondescript girl's roll number, "May I go now, sir?"
Simpson eyed Molly, and then Sherlock. He was still probably planning revenge against Sherlock for having played that prank around the Dean, "By all means."
Sherlock took a last look at the rest of his year mates, some of them who were gaping open-mouthed upon seeing Sherlock having finished the extremely difficult test well before time. There were some hostile looks exchanged, some God, what does he think of himself looks. Sherlock walked out of the classroom unhurriedly just to waste five more minutes of their useless time. The one con of finishing the test earlier was that he had to wait outside for Molly to finish her test. It was her turn to drive them today, and seeing as she was such a "talented" driver, Sherlock did not want to do anything that set her off, including playing truant on her. She could be awfully annoying when she was, for the lack of a better word, annoyed.
Sherlock settled against the staircase in a cosy spot, drowning water down his throat and counting how many veins were newly visible around the knuckles of his right hand. Waiting was tedious, oh so very tedious. His mind filled up with infinite possibilities of where he could go, what he could be doing, but none of them seemed interesting at that point. He would have to do the lab work eventually, so there was no point in going there. The library building was so far away, and plus the car keys were with Molly.
Sherlock pondered over his choices. Sometimes it struck him that he was almost a nerd. There was only one other thing in his life that had no relation with science, in a manner of speaking. And that had rejected him so easily.
Finally, he could hear the murmuring start, until it became a low sound of a gathering talking with some idiots shouting sometimes. Simpson was collecting papers then. Good, at least there was only a few more minutes to nothingness.
Then Simpson came out and shot past Sherlock without so much as a look at him. Then his year mates began to trickle out. First were the mushy couples, holding hands, some kissing, some falling over their steady, the sensible ones talking in low voices to avoid attention, the drama queens practically shouting so that everybody knew that they were with their first boyfriends. Then came the girls, some silent, mostly weeping about the writing-the-neighbours'-roll-numbers-thing, some flirting, followed by the boys who liked lending shoulders in a false show of chivalry and most of them bitching about what a wanker Simpson and his paper were.
The former groups passed him by without much comment, but the bitch-boys accosted him, telling him what an utter prick, ponce, bastard, shit, etc he was, not showing his paper to others, to his "mates". Sherlock wanted to scoff at them, who thought that they were his mates at their convenience. But he ignored them and waited quietly in a corner until Molly came out one of the last, trying to discuss the paper with someone who did not want to forget the hallowed experience of the last of their first internals tests. She was always the last to come out after a test, always wanting more and more time to go over and to make sure that she hadn't made any stupid mistakes.
She acknowledged him by cocking an eyebrow, and instantly pushed the question paper right under his nose.
"Tell me the answer to this one, Sherlock, please? I know you got it right, you always get everything right. Why can't I be intelligent like you? God, I shouldn't have fallen asleep last night!" she complained, "I could've got this question. And this one too! If only there was some pill or anything which I could take not to sleep for some time. Like some anti-sleeping pills."
"There is," Sherlock drawled, pushing the paper away, "it's called coffee."
She rolled her eyes as they descended down the steps, "Right, coffee. Or those coffee toffee cheesecakes. But excess caffeine makes one drowsy."
"You can't be talking about coffee of all things."
Molly looked taken aback for a moment, "Oh. . . right. Sorry, I got carried. . . away. . ."
Sherlock squinted at her, "You didn't say anything offending. You need not be selling sorrys to everyone just to show others that you are polite and not a threat."
She let out a bitter laugh that sounded nothing like a laugh, "Maybe I say them because I expect the other person to be equally polite to me."
Sherlock sighed an all-suffering sigh, "The thought had occurred."
"Love thy neighbour as thyself, yeah?" Molly smirked, but Sherlock put her down in an instant with a dominating "don't be too smart, Molly." She subdued instantly with an inaudible apology.
"You know. . ." she ventured tentatively, "you really shouldn't be like that."
Sherlock frowned, "Like what?"
"You know. . ." she tried to appear small, "make people—you know—resent you. I—I know you don't do it on purpose, but sometimes. . . well, erm—it looks like—you do."
"Do what?" Sherlock demanded.
"You know, offending people. You should have some on your side, even if you don't like them," Molly said sheepishly, "tell them a few answers during the test and they'll owe you favours."
"Are you hungry?" he dismissed it as they exited the building and made their way towards the cafeteria through the shortcut. Molly always lost her way about it, but not with Sherlock, who knew St. Bart's like the anatomy of the human body.
"I'm always hungry after a tes—" she sighed and began, but stopped abruptly as her expression changed in a second. It took Sherlock to only look ahead to find out why. His heart became a gooey messy swollen organ in his chest falling into the pit of his stomach and trying to find its way right up until it could no longer figure out which way was up or down.
Right outside the PG Science, Professor Watson was making his way along with a couple of students walking along with him, or more like following him and failing to keep up with the man who wanted nothing more than to forget about students and spend his free recess hour peacefully.
Sherlock felt an irrational flare of jealousy lick up his spine upon seeing that people, ordinary people were surrounding that man, sharing the same air as him, while he had to be away, and could see him only in class.
"—but you cannot make this assumption," he was saying almost dismissively, "if you were to assume that the average decay rate. . ." he trailed off. It took Sherlock some more moments to realise why.
For a second, Professor Watson's eyes locked onto his, and he blinked and closed his mouth. Sherlock knew he had stopped in his tracks too, for Molly tugged at his sleeve hard. Sherlock pretended to be looking elsewhere but in the meantime, Molly had interlaced her fingers in his—an action that would've felt uncomfortably intimate and possessive to someone else—and walked on almost stomping the feet with the ground. Sherlock could tell that the man's face fell at how domineering Molly was acting. He himself was surprised by her initiative.
Sherlock, for once, did not drop that charade as he let himself be towed by her forcefully. He heard a gentle voice continue after the hiatus it had gone into, "So as I was saying. . ."
He and Molly turned around the corner and stopped and finally Sherlock allowed himself to breathe. He was more than aware of Molly's presence beside him and in times like these, he really preferred his privacy than a girl who had a sugary euphemism for every goddamned thing in the world.
"Are you alright?" Molly ventured tentatively. Sherlock blinked and straightened up, brushing off the dust from his shirt proudly.
She looked understanding, but Sherlock managed a roll of eyes that he didn't even mean, "What the hell was that?! You made me look like an emo in front of a guy who—!" Sherlock felt foolish, first at having misinterpreted the Professor Watson's attentions, and secondly at Molly thinking that he was heartbroken or something when he clearly wasn't. It was no big deal.
"You're an idiot if you think I would do such a trite and cheap thing as making him jealous. I. . . was wrong, that's it," Sherlock felt more embarrassed at his mistake than being made a emo by his romantic best friend in front of Professor John Watson, "it can happen. Sometimes. . . Rarely, I hope."
"Whatever, it was worth the look on his face," said Molly shrugging, and hiding an impish grin that Sherlock saw anyway. Feeling like a sensible person for the first time, Sherlock heaved an all-suffering sigh and walked on, leaving Molly behind.
"Sherlock," she called behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides, "wait for me!"
John knew he had acted like a child.
He couldn't think of anything else that whole day as he walked back to the bus stop with Abbott. He kept on replaying the scene in front of UG Sciences a million times in his head, the one moment when Sherlock had met his eyes and John, in the hope of seeing something in the boy that made him feel even remotely desired by someone like him, kept playing it just to gauge Sherlock's feelings, if any. John wasn't sure what Sherlock would feel, apart from being spurned and aggravated by rejection.
But every time he played the scene over in his head, Ms. Hooper kept coming between them. Of course she would. She had perhaps found out that her boyfriend had almost cheated on her and John knew he had lost Ms. Hooper's cooperation during class. She'd never interact with John properly now, let alone Sherlock. John felt a slight twinge inside his chest at the thought of coming between a famous couple like them.
At least he had turned his offer for trysts down. At least his conscience was clear.
At least he could've turned Sherlock down in a less embarrassing way. Maybe explained to him that he really shouldn't taint a professional relationship with sex, more so with perhaps the straightest professor in the world.
He knew he was fooling himself.
Abbott, unbeknownst, tried to involve him in what was more like a one-sided conversation, telling him about how his day had been and how he hated his students (Everybody does, right?) Worst of all, he went on about Sherlock's tales and his scathing comments from all day in an attempt to humour John.
John sometimes supposed that Sherlock had a brilliant career as a screenplay writer or a dialogue artist, with that amount of witty punchlines in his mind.
He tried not to remember the hurt in his eyes as he left the class, the slouched shoulders of dejection. He was a young boy, John mused, and it wasn't his fault that he had mistaken his professor's "intellectual" interest in him for something else. It was extremely harsh and very mean to treat him like that. John knew why he had lashed out like that. He had never thought that Sherlock wasn't interested in being friends with him. Oh course, why would someone like Sherlock think of someone as ordinary as him as anything like friends? He only wanted sex and a bit of professor on the side. He had only begun to like Sherlock, look forward to his little visits and somehow what Sherlock did crippled John from every thinking about him in a platonic way.
But it still wasn't very prudent to reject a young boy like that. He had lost control of himself with Sherlock so uncomfortably close and intimate.
Young boy. John was the one who had run away instead of making him understand that he really shouldn't be so cheeky with his professor. He was supposed to be the mature adult here, and yet he had stormed off when it had been time to act like one.
Back in the bus, he tried to think why Sherlock was doing whatever he was trying to do. Why he was being extra disrespectful in class. In one of the last assignments, Sherlock had actually written 'NULL' over all the worksheet in the weekly test except for the last two questions, as if they were the only ones which mattered.
A small part of Sherlock was probably upset.
John decided that he would have to stop keeping two questions especially for Sherlock at the end.
"Hey, professor, happy birthday," Jeanette greeted him with a quick kiss as he entered his flat. John cast his eyes over the whole place, his mouth slightly ajar. The sitting room was a complete, utter mess. She had taken the liberty to move in. John was starting to see where this was going. Why she had patched things up.
"What're you doing?" asked John, putting his bag down and then looking her up from head to toe. Her apron had chocolate stains all over it, "And stop calling me professor," said he. It reminded him of a certain someone way too much.
Jeanette pouted her lips. "I moved in, stupid!" said she, smacking his head lightly with the stirrer. John reeled backwards, disgusted as he felt egg yolk and butter stick to his hair, "You look so cute when you make that face. And look, I'm making a cake for you. Special birthday surprise."
John tried his best not to frown at that as he felt for his left shoulder, a little stiff from carrying the heavy bag around as he settled down on the couch. He didn't like being called cute. Somehow, being cute equalled to being short in John's subconscious mind, the one thing he was incredibly self-conscious about.
Nevertheless it was nice, seeing that someone remembered his birthday, however childish that sounded like. Sherlock would agree on that.
Not Sherlock again.
"You opening a chocolate factory too anytime soon?" he asked, clearing his throat.
Jeanette threw him a smirk as John smelled the delicious aroma of chocolate from the kitchen, "Hmm, I might. For you. You remember that time, in Dublin?"
John did. He had gone for some sort of a convention thing and she was his plus-one. It was their third time, and he had made love to her all over the kitchen table, smearing her with chocolate and licking it away. Somehow, something that had felt very erotic at that time only served to disgust him a little now. Jeanette came over to him, and settled between his legs, kissing him deeply, plying his mouth open. . . it did feel good. So good.
There. He had a girlfriend who was gorgeous and smart and funny. He didn't need Holmes. He wasn't gay. He hadn't turned gay, if that was even possible.
John tried to retract his mouth away, "Jeanette, not today please—"
But she kept kissing him, while her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt off, her fingers trailing against his chest. Not being able to resist, John pulled her towards him, kissing her back passionately as he undid and threw away the apron. She worked her way to his neck, biting and kissing the vulnerable skin there, while massaging his half-hard clothed erection. John closed his eyes, leaning into her touch and exhaling deeply, "Oh, Go—Ugh. . . Sher—oh, god—lock, stop. . . I'm your. . . fucking tea—oh—cher. . ."
Jeanette stopped immediately, causing John to completely lose it.
"What happened?" he asked breathlessly.
"What did you say?" she asked, her eyes squinting on him, refusing John's touch as she slid off him. John's half-shut mind frowned, not being able to understand what 'Sher—oh, god—lock' was. He sat there, staring vacantly into her eyes for a few moments. The room seemed small, stuffy, and way too crowded. Finally, he got up, muttering an unintelligible apology to her, and dashed inside to his room, to smack his head so that he could at least get a grip on what was happening to him. Finally, not being able to clear his mind, he did the one thing that usually felt like salvation, making impossible papers for the senior years, and imagining their sorry faces. He had been thinking about Holmes way too much, and John didn't want to admit, but it did get a little beyond the general description of "intellectual".
He needed to be civil with Holmes again.
The next time Sherlock arrived in the class—sans Molly—he found the girl in question already there in the class sitting on the tables with some of her girl friends. In a bizarre turn of events, Molly's friends hadn't really abandoned her, although it was the more dorky ones who were still in the classroom. Most of the others were probably hanging out in the clubs near the Union building or near the gym. As expected, there was no one teaching in the class. There seemed to be some electronic hip-hop song. . . thing playing—that Eminem thing, perhaps—along with the riffs of some nondescript rock song on an electric guitar that somebody was playing. No place better than a classroom, Sherlock thought sarcastically.
Sherlock entered the classroom and got a better view of the people there.
They had made a clearing in front of the board, swept the teachers' desk and chair away in a corner. A couple of guys were practising some break dance moves—Sherlock had to admit that they were good, if unoriginal. In a corner, there was a group singing some song that was supposed to be happy and working wonders to lift the mood, but they were continuously missing the beat and taking arbitrary scales for themselves, making the song all the more depressing to Sherlock.
". . . the club's free the next-to-next Tuesday, but shouldn't we have it on Friday? I don't feel like showing up for classes right after the freshers. . ."
The freshers.
So that's why all this was going on.
So all of them were presenting a dance—not Eminem, the voice wasn't angry and didn't swear like a sailor, maybe that Gaga person, no, she was a woman and was in the pop genre—and preparing for the freshers and had turned the lecture hall into a multipurpose room for singing and dancing and chatting and all sorts of people-y things.
No classes.
Because students would barricade the door and not let the teacher enter, and besides there was no professor stupid enough to come snooping by, not right two weeks before the much awaited freshers party, the senior batches' only excuse for hazing virgin freshers. Sherlock remembered his, and just how he had made himself a target during the freshers' party itself. He couldn't help it back then. It had been very tempting, standing out and answering back.
Mycroft had forgotten his biweekly visit because of his weekly weight gain, and now, no classes. How much better could this day get, Sherlock thought, feeling like he had just discovered alien DNA in his blood.
Molly caught his eye and smiled politely, and then resumed her talking with her friends. Sherlock had a feeling that he won't be able to have her attention today. Besides, there were no lectures or seminars today. He might as well go back. Molly had her own car, and Sherlock had his own today.
". . . call Sherlock, hey Sherlock!" he heard some of the girls taking his name. He snapped his head towards them, to see that they were actually calling him. By name. And not Holmes. Sherlock had a hunch that it had little to do with Molly and everything to do with the freshers party.
Reluctantly, he made his way to the group of unworthy people Molly called her "friends". Sherlock had in fact written an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on her friends, but in hindsight, he thought he shouldn't tell Molly about that one.
Sherlock plopped down beside Molly and fidgeted awkwardly, "So. . . well. . ." he began as a couple of girls giggled not-so-surreptitiously and took his reluctance to sit with girls and be treated as Molly's best girl friend (which he wasn't at all, thank you very much, he was a guy, not a girl) as his discomfort and that only made him want to stare them down into discomfort.
"Sherlock, we're doing the budget for the party," one of them with glasses permanently fixed up her nose declared pompously. Words like "Mycroft's soul mate" floated in Sherlock's head. She looked soboring—let alone her words—that Sherlock did not bother to even try and deduce her. She wore a vintage plaid kilt that did not compliment her olive-tanned skin at all, unlike she wanted to believe. She had better luck with her hair and her nails, though.
At that point, Sherlock realised why Molly thought of him as her girl friend.
"At this point, we've got the venue from five thirty to ten thirty; that's the limit. Happy hour," she coughed sophisticatedly at this point to cover the real meaning of 'happy hour', "is from seven to nine thirty, and then announcing Mr and Ms Fresher. We've got the DJ and the club's lighting. . ."
And after that, Sherlock tuned out. He wasn't even going to be there for the freshers. There would be people. And immaturity. Not that he wasn't a very example of one. The freshers' party was only an pathetic excuse for "light hazing" during the happy hour as the seniors dubbed it. He didn't need a party to make people feel vulnerable or embarrassed. He was capable of doing that without any aid.
". . . Sherlock? Sherlock?" Molly's shrill voice came, "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"
Sherlock gave a start that he hoped was imperceptible to others. Nevertheless, he still let out a yawn to cover that up.
"You know, if you're not interested," one of them said coldly, "you should leave."
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As if he had volunteered. But before he could say anything that was even remotely cutting, Molly began to apologise for him like the good girl she was. Sherlock refrained from heaving a sigh, "Carry on."
And Sherlock phased out again. What was he even doing here? In university? With his life? He felt like a caged bird who had to put up with social tediousness every now and then. He liked university. Yes, perhaps more than he had liked his secondary school, seeing as most of the time he wasn't in secondary school. He should've been out exploring. Seeing the world for himself. He sometimes wished he had scored so many hit-offs that his parents and his brother would've given up, deeming him a lost cause.
That was unlikely, seeing the way his mother's face lit up whenever he went back to Lincolnshire during Christmases.
Most of the time, Sherlock fantasised about freedom. What would that be like? Without having Molly and perhaps his brother's omnipresent shadow trailing him everywhere? Without having to study? Without having a routine? Having his head up the clouds instead of inside a book?
At least St. Bart's didn't have a formal routine, except for whatever schedule he had for the day.
A breakout of loud raucous laughter forced Sherlock out of his thoughts and to look up towards the door.
"No, you can't come in, professor!" some of the girls—flirtatiously, Sherlock would say—barricaded the offender, obviously male, with wide doe-like eyes and pouts that were supposed to be pallbearers of cuteness.
"No way," one of the girls in front of Sherlock bemoaned, "No classes, please! I haven't completed that assignment yet."
"You mean the one that he handed out two weeks ago," another piped up, "The due-date's gone for, like, forever, Stace!"
"Oh my god, I haven't given any of my quizzes yet!"
"Quizzes don't count in the trimester, relax!"
Sherlock remembered too. He had all his assignments pending. He hadn't felt like completing any. Not that he ever felt like. He sometimes wished he was a girl so that he could bat his eyelashes at his instructors too and get out of such trite things.
"Oh no, sir, you aren't allowed. Not until the freshers'." The tirade continued at the door, followed by giggles.
"If you're so keen to teach, you could tutor me, sir," a bolder one interjected and the group broke into laughs again. Some of the boys hooted at that.
"I—I—just need to—" came the extremely embarrassed voice. Sherlock craned his neck and stuck out his head towards the door. He knew that voice extremely well, and couldn't have expected any other professor coming during the much-awaited and much-exaggerated freshers' parties. And couldn't have expected the girls to go so haywire around anybody else.
Professor Watson stopped his protest and pursed his lips together as soon as he saw Sherlock looking straight at him. Sherlock couldn't really blame the man. Logically speaking, it was nothing of the professor's fault that Sherlock had mistaken his oh-so-chaste intentions. He thought he could forgive the man. He wasn't particularly mad. If anything, he doubted whether the two of them could ever be as comfortable as they used to be, now that Sherlock had voiced his intentions so clearly.
The man looked at Sherlock expectantly, pleading to be rescued from the preening, winking girls. Sherlock had to resist the urge to laugh at the helpless man. Good, he deserved that.
"—Don't worry, boys and girls. I just need to—well, Mr. Holmes!" Professor Watson called out, his voice carrying something akin to urgency. Sherlock fought had to keep back a triumphant smile. Almost certainly, Dr. Watson was done with being noble and all around moral teacher. He didn't know what he was happier about, at finally managing to win and proving himself right, or at finally getting to make out with his professor.
He'd say that it was the latter, but then he'd be lying.
"Yes, sir?" Sherlock couldn't keep it in his voice. It was only a matter of time and Dr. Watson had come right back. Sherlock knew with a conviction that. . .
"Come outside, please, since I will not be allowed to speak here," he said tetchily. There was something incredibly defensive in his manner, but Sherlock did not bother to process that. He had finally won, he had been right all along and that was all that mattered.
He felt like giving the girls a smug smirk, that he was the one getting their beloved Professor Johnny instead of their desperate selves. That was until one of the guys uttered 'teacher's pet' behind his back that Sherlock resisted with a silent chuckle.
"Yes, sir," he said, cocking an eyebrow at a worried Molly as a goodbye. Of course, John wanted privacy. Good enough. Why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't anyone?
Triumph surging through his veins, Sherlock slung his bookbag over his shoulder. He began mapping out various make-out points, locked closets, unused classrooms, washrooms, stairwells, anywhere. He knew the campus like no one else. There were so many potential places to get laid that—
"Come along then," the man said stiffly and Sherlock found himself following him until they reached Abandoned Stairwell #1 in Sherlock's mind map. The curve of Dr. Watson's shoulder was stiff, extremely so, and Sherlock realised that the man was nervous. Well, now that he was here, he was a little nervous too, seeing as he didn't have conscious experience with sex. He thought whether he should make the first move and thought about what he should do. . .
"Since I am not going to wait till the freshers' to get over," Dr. Watson began as soon as Sherlock said, "So we'll just go in—"
There was an awkward pause as they looked at each other with identical expressions on their face. Dr. Watson blinked at him, and cleared his throat, suddenly interested in his feet. Sherlock was beginning to see that he had made a grave miscalculation. Again.
"I'll speak first," Dr. Watson said, tucking his arms behind his back and looking Sherlock in the eye, "Since I'm not going to wait for the freshers to get over to return these," he patted his bookbag, "I'll give it to you now, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock barely found his voice, his mouth felt so dry. The second time he was proved wrong, by the same man, over the same thing. It was just. . . unthinkable. He merely blinked, his face completely blank.
Dr. Watson pulled out some files and handed Sherlock his, "Your last assignment. See the lovely 'NULL' written all over it by you?"
Sherlock nodded numbly, unable to recover from the shock of being wrong again. On a normal day he would've rolled his eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. There was an unfamiliar tetchiness to the professor's voice. He felt almost afraid of Sherlock and was trying not to show it by bringing in an unusual viciousness in his voice.
"Well, I. . . ahem, need actual content in here instead of a 'NULL', Mr. Holmes," John said sternly, but avoiding his eye, "Otherwise I'm afraid I will not be able to assess you on this. Every assignment counts, yeah? So make sure I have it by Thursday. With proper analysis done and valid, justified reasons to back it up. And no copying, please. We know the university policy on plagiarism, don't we?"
Sherlock didn't nod, just kept watching the man, the extremely unpredictable man. He finally found his voice, but it came out as hoarse. Dr. Watson looked up at once as he cleared his throat daintily, "Um, sir. . . should I, erm. . . come and give this to you in your office when I'm done with this?"
Dr. Watson blinked and looked like he was about to say yes, but then he sighed and dug out his schedule, "Not in the office, please," it actually sounded like a plea, and Sherlock, for one second wondered whether he really was victimising the man, "Erm, I'll be there in lab 3 ten thirty to twelve thirty on Thursday. You can give it to me then."
Sherlock groaned inwardly. He had scared the prude off. He was never going to have a chance with that man, not after blowing off said chance with impatience and overconfidence.
"Erm. . ." Dr. Watson shuffled to his feet, still looking awkwardly at Sherlock, "You—wanted to say—something. . .?"
For a moment, Sherlock was tempted to say something, anything, persuade him again. Even if his persuasion and his meagre attempts at planned seduction had certainly not worked their charm on Dr. Watson, he couldn't say that he hadn't enjoyed the other man's company. Without a word, he shook his head, swallowed his impending black mood and tucked his dramatic assignment in it to leave Dr. Watson standing there awkwardly as he made his way towards the room.
He knew that Dr. Watson would still be standing there, still looking at Sherlock, pretending to be an adult and a prude and grave about how Sherlock should concentrate on his academics. Sherlock didn't know what he was gloomier about, at permanently screwing up his interactions a man who was beginning to consider him—of all people—a friend, or at not getting to make out with everyone's new favourite professor.
He'd say that it was the latter, but then he'd be lying.
Having nothing better to do, Sherlock decided to stay in the department library and complete the assignment, seeing as in his last assignment, he had been bad-tempered enough to take a photocopy of Molly's introduction and acknowledgements page and then write 'NULL' over the next pages. Any other professor would've given him a nice U for that without a second gleeful thought. The little prude that Dr. Watson was, doing everybody a world of good like a proper UNICEF worker, wanted Sherlock to actually do the assignment. And so, for once, Sherlock acquiesced and settled down to work on it. It was a challenging little thing, absolutely required anyone to spend some time in the labs working on it because he wasn't going to dig out his own spinal cord for that.
He groaned in his hands, bemoaning over his butchered free time. For free time, he'd have to complete the assignment, to complete the assignment, he'd have to go to the labs, and to go to the labs, he'd have to get up. He should've just pushed the work on Molly.
The couple across him, working on a laptop looked at him as if he were an overgrown insect. Sherlock did not glare back.
He got over it, cursing himself as he balanced the heavy books on his arm. He collected his reading card and made it out of the library. it was Thursday, the last day for submission. It was eleven now and he wasn't sure he wanted to go into the lab now. Watson would be there, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to see him again.
Sherlock shook himself. So what if Watson was there? He didn't mean anything. He was a prude. Just a stuck-up prude like Simpson.
He made his way to Dental Sciences for the lab, avoiding peeping into the Dean of Students' car. Without so much as a look at the instructor's desk, where Dr. Watson was seated, he took out his study materials, his laptop and set down to work.
Eventually, he could feel the presence beside him. Watson had left his work and come over to join him, to see over his work maybe. As if he needed that. Sherlock wasn't much for fancy, but he could actually sense something radiating from the teacher. The tread of footfalls obviously were tense and mediated, but there was a newfound boldness. He genuinely felt distrustful of the man, the one who could prove him wrong every time and he didn't want to feel the swooping sensation whenever he was wrong.
And then—
"Is that your assignment?" Dr. Watson asked, bending down to read the content in Sherlock's laptop.
Obviously. "Hmm."
"I thought. . . you'd be done by now."
You think? "I started today."
There was an awkward pause, and Sherlock's eyes darted sideways when he heard the bench near him give a creak as Dr. Watson settled beside him, body completely facing him. Sherlock, for his part, abandoned his work to turn to look at him. For a moment, Dr. Watson—John, his name was John. What a commonplace name. He'd never make a good pirate with that name—gazed at him, and Sherlock stared right back challengingly. His gaze accidently dropped to Dr. Watson's—John's—lips, and that seemed to startle the other man right out of his daze with a sharp clear of his throat that echoed in the empty lab.
Empty, Sherlock noted. They were alone. Again. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and his lips glued together when he opened his mouth.
"Ahem—you want to say something?" Sherlock asked coldly, trying to come across as dismissive.
Dr. Watson licked his lips and took off his glasses, pointing at the laptop screen with them, "No, I just. . . erm, I gave it to you the previous week. I personally came to the class and. . ."
"You needn't have come," Sherlock heaved a sigh and continued with typing and occasionally looking up the model, making his observations, "Give me a U, I don't care. Only two more years here and then I'll be gone." Free as a bird. Free to explore.
Dr. Watson nodded, taking the new bit of information in and stayed quiet as Sherlock continued to work, typing away at a furious speed. After what seemed like minutes, Dr. Watson spoke.
"You've got potential, Sherlock," he said in a disappointed tone, and Sherlock snapped out of it upon hearing his name. He hadn't realised it first when he had asked Dr. Watson to call him Sherlock, but there was something incredibly intimate about that, "I'd hate it if you threw something like that," he gestured to Sherlock in general, "away by being mad at an old man like me. I'd hate myself for that."
Sherlock felt confused by Professor Watson's frankness, at what he was implying. There was nothing he could say to something like that. Age wasn't much of a barrier for Sherlock.
"You're not old," he retorted, "You're hardly thirty."
Dr. Watson barked out a laugh and Sherlock gave him a weak smile when he realised that he was probably not making fun of him, "That's true, innit?" unconsciously, he leaned in closer, "I celebrated my 29th birthday some days ago. . . and I have no idea why I'm telling you this."
Sherlock straightened up at that, "Oh. . . happy, erm. . . birthday then?" he tried uncertainly.
Dr. Watson chuckled, shaking his head and Sherlock backpedalled furiously, "I—it's what people say, don't they?" he spoke quickly, "Happy birthday and many returns something. . .?"
He relaxed and Sherlock saw that his face had an entirely different aura. He realised for a moment that he was not seeing Dr. Watson, his professor. He was just seeing John. He smiled placatingly, wanting to reach out for his hand but he refrained. He had to be careful with Dr. Watson. Even more with the John individual in him, the singular man with a most non-singular name.
"Do you need my help? Doing this, I mean?" Dr. Watson interjected too quickly, "Not what—erm, you. . ."
This time, seeing as Dr. Watson wouldn't appreciate Sherlock flirting, he kept it chaste, "I don't need your help."
Somehow, he said something wrong, because Dr. Watson's face fell and he nodded briskly, "Of course, Sherl—Mr. Holmes," he cleared his throat and wore his glasses back like battle armour, "I'll leave you to it."
Sherlock frowned and narrowed his eyes in confusion. Somewhere, he felt like he had to say something. Maybe he could accept his offer for a truce, "Or maybe I—"
"No, it's okay," Dr. Watson said, all light leaving his face, "I know you don't."
With that, he left Sherlock wondering what he had done—or said—wrong. Without wasting any more time, Sherlock turned to work furiously on his laptop while one thought kept revolving in his mind. The poor man thought that he was old for Sherlock. Sherlock would show him that he wasn't. He would, surely. One day. Today, if he was lucky.
He quietly took out the printouts, stuffed them in a file and handed it over to Dr. Watson, observing the John individual in him all the while. Little fascinating quirks set him apart from any other person, the way his mouth unconsciously hung open when he was thinking, the way he skimmed through first and then read only what he felt was relevant, the permanent stiffness in his shoulders. Sherlock felt like he was seeing someone else entirely. He had been going after the professor like the idiot he was when there was this unique individual sitting in front of him, hidden behind his glasses and the knot of his tie. Till now, Sherlock had seen how the man changed when he was with him but he had never really bothered to go deep, see the man behind Dr. Watson. And why would he have? His own intentions were shallow enough.
"Are you going to do it now?" Sherlock asked.
"Do what?" Dr. Watson asked, not looking up from the file.
"Grading. Save it for more boring times."
Dr. Watson paused, and Sherlock wondered whether he had been impatient. Again. When he looked up, his expression was unreadable.
"I'm simply doing my work," he cleared his throat, "You can leave if you want."
Sherlock pursed his lips, "So, you'll just. . . sit here and do boring things?"
"What you call 'boring' is what I'm being paid for, Mr. Holmes," John explained patiently, continuing to read the little document even if Sherlock hadn't written much, "so, I don't seem to have a choice."
"You do," Sherlock said, sitting down in the chair in front of him, "you just need to consider it."
Dr. Watson blinked, focussing his glare on Sherlock, after which, "Are you trying to psychoanalyse me, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock sighed, "I do not concern myself with something as absurd as the Freudian concept of psychoanalysis, professor, considering that even though Freud was right up to a level, the tenets upon which he has based the entire theory of the subject are deeply flawed and ancient."
Dr. Watson shook his head and spoke in his blandest voice, "You don't get a light-hearted statement, do you?"
. . . Oh! "My apologies."
He could tell that even though Dr. Watson seemed to be glaring at him, there was an almost imperceptible twitch to his lips. He was amused. Sherlock found himself fighting tooth and nail to hide a smirk.
"I think I'll take your leave, sir," Sherlock nodded and he imagined just a tinge of uncertainty in Dr. Watson's eyes before he looked down.
"I'll give this back to you when the regular schedule starts again."
"Keep it," Sherlock smirked, "You might need it more."
Dr. Watson stood up as Sherlock gathered his things, "I will return it. Don't worry."
"I wasn't worried."
"Please don't start behaving like that again, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Watson's less-than-amiable voice now rang out, focussing Sherlock's attention back, and Sherlock felt like he was going to get a lecture again. He had seen the man that existed behind the facade of Professor Watson. Why couldn't John see the Sherlock behind the mask of 'student' too?
"Look, I don't want to lecture you," Dr. Watson said at once, "but. . . at least, please behave with me like you do with other professors. I'd really appreciate that."
Sherlock had a lot of things to say, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth, not after seeing the man so desperate for Sherlock's companionship that he was willing to be treated like a nobody. Sherlock didn't say anything when he felt something move in his chest, fragile and tentative as the tiny inward curling of tissue paper that had just caught fire. The professor would come around eventually.
Sherlock glanced at him and resumed packing as if he had said nothing and exited the lab. He could've said something ambiguous but he wasn't cruel to leave him hanging onto a thread of hope and dismay like that.
He heard his name being called and didn't look back. He wasn't going to respond to Mr. Holmes. He'd respond to only 'Sherlock'.
"Mr. Holmes!"
Sherlock whipped around. It was clear that the voice wasn't Dr. Watson's mellow one.
It was that of Dr. Hope, the Dean of Students coming in his direction and Sherlock knew that he was in big trouble, especially for pulling off that stunt with his suspension order. He briefly considered running off. . .
Dean Hope approached him, "Mr. Holmes, my office, now."
Sherlock knew he couldn't get out of this.
This fic is going through a major editing process. And I've edited up till here. So if the next chapter doesn't make sense, I'm truly sorry.