On Saturday, John spent his time doing some personal errands. He had to do the laundry, cleaning the flat (which was in a miserable state) and do the shopping. Still happy with the thoughts of the previous evening – he couldn't believe his luck of having found such a wonderful woman – the whole day passed almost without John noticing. By the evening he had exchanged several text messages with Laura, all of which had been lovely and had made him blush, and he was already planning their next date, which, he hoped, would have happened soon.

At nine o'clock p.m., while he was watching a crap television programme, his phone buzzed once again.

Goodnight John
Kisses
Laura

John smiled and texted her back.

Goodnight and sweet dreams
John

Needless to say that, when he went to bed, he dreamt of her. But not all the night was full of sweet dreams. As the first section of it had been full of warm, springy images of him and Laura, the second part of his sleep became the place of dark and mysterious dreams around the figure of the student Sherlock Holmes. It started with a vision of the young man falling down into a black hole and him trying to catch his hand, but failing. Then he saw him dead in an alley. Then he saw him laughing and then screaming in agony. He woke up in a pool of sweat, heavily breathing and with his heart racing.

The first thought of that morning was that he was really worried about Holmes. Two weeks were a very long time. He didn't want to nose into the young man's personal life, but, after his nightmares, he asked himself if he had to call the police. He sat on a chair in the kitchen trying to make up his mind. In the end he decided he was becoming paranoid and that there was nothing to worry about. So said his brain, his heart, he recognised, thought otherwise. But calling the police just to tell them that a man was in danger because he had had nightmares over it was out of question.

Instead he decided that he needed a good walk to put his thoughts straight.

The weather was nice once again and, even if it was already the end of September, the air smelt of fresh flowers and marine breeze. The sun was shining up in the sky and there were no clouds to be seen. He walked aimlessly for about three hours, before deciding to go towards Hyde Park. Since he hadn't had any breakfast, at midday he was literally starving. He thus stopped in a lovely café in a street nearby. He sat down and ordered a tuna salad and a pint of beer. As he started to eat it with taste, he heard someone approaching and addressing to him.

"Professor Watson!"

He looked up to meet a face he had least expected to see there. Dark curls and dark eyes, Sally Donovan was staring at him.

"Professor Donovan.", he said just like a greeting, but without any enthusiasm at all.

He silently cursed himself for having chosen that place in that moment. He didn't want to talk to her, because he had the strange sensation that she was going to question him about Sherlock Holmes, but he didn't want to seem rude either.

"I didn't expect to find you here."

Me either, thought John.

"Mind if I join you?"

Obviously he wanted to reply no, but it seemed that his vocal cord didn't want to cooperate, as he found himself answering:

"Yes, of course you can join me."

Professor Donovan smiled and ordered a Salad Niçoise with a bottle of water.

"So, professor Watson, who are you?", she said wryly.

"Sorry?"

"Who is the man that Sherlock Holmes had chosen?", she chuckled in a rather disgusting way "Everyone at the university wants to know that."

"Why? Have I done something wrong?"

"Wrong? Maybe. Weird? Certainly.", she replied.

"How's that?"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't speak to professors. And yet you followed him. What happened? Are you his pet or something similar?"

"I'm not his pet. For the heaven's sake! I barely know him!", he yelled.

"Oh. So you don't know how he is."

"I don't know anything about him."

John felt the too well-known desire of punching her in the face right there. He restrained himself fiercely.

"So you don't know about the laboratory set on fire during his second day at the university? Or when he was found dissecting a human body in an empty classroom? Or when he almost punched to death a guy?"

John stared at her astonished.

"No.", he swallowed with difficulty "I knew nothing about that."

"What's your business with him, then?", she continued.

"I have no business at all with Mr. Holmes. He has just…"

What he was going to say? How could he justify again the fact that he, a professor, had followed Sherlock Holmes, a student, when he didn't know a single thing about the young man? And Donovan was no Laura. She would've killed him to obtain the information she needed, if given the chance.

"…asked me for advice."

Pitiful lie. Again.

"What kind of advice involves the police? He often goes away with the police. What does he do? You've seen him. Is he involved in some sort of crimes? He's a psychopath after all. He enjoys violence."

At this point, John understood that he couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up all of a sudden, looking at Donovan directly in the eyes.

"That's none of your business!", he shouted, anger raging through his body "He's just a student and you're making a criminal out of him!"

All the customers in the café turned to him, but he didn't care. All he cared about was trying to not kill her in front of witnesses. Hadn't there been witnesses, he was totally sure that he would've killed her.

"So that's your definitive answer?", she smiled sarcastically, knowing she was winning the fight.

"Yes.", he huffed "And it's better for you and for me that this conversation ends here."

Thus he went to pay, not having even finished his lunch and turned to the door to go away as fast as possible. As he was stepping out of the place, Donovan spoke again from her seat.

"Professor Watson. Just my advice: stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

He closed the door so violently that, for a second, he thought the glass would break into pieces.

He walked to Hyde Park, trying to calm the rage which was burning inside him. How could someone take the liberty to define a person they barely know? She based her judgement about Sherlock Holmes on irrelevant facts, she didn't even notice how clever and brilliant that man was. How could she be so blind? What had Holmes done that made her so angry with him? Nevertheless she was wrong. The young man had, perhaps, an impossible behaviour, but he wasn't a psychopath. Not at all. Whatever he had done, to John Watson he was still an extraordinary human being with an extraordinary brain. He barely knew him, true. But Donovan was so repulsive that he was ready to take up the cudgels for Sherlock Holmes every time.

In this state of mind, he reached the park and started walking along the Serpentine. An hour later he had another meeting he hadn't expect to have. As he went to and fro the park, John noticed a known figure. DI Lestrade was staring at the pond, eating a croissant and holding a cup of coffee in his left hand. He thought for a second of letting him alone, but he had questions. Too many questions. John approached and greeted him.

"Good afternoon!"

The man turned to him and gave him a quick look.

"Good afternoon! Aren't you the one who was with Sherlock the other day?"

John nodded.

"Doctor Watson, right?"

"Yeah."

Lestrade smiled, while keeping munching his croissant.

"Mind a walk with me?", he asked John.

"Not at all."

John was so desperately in need of information about Sherlock Holmes that even if Lestrade had asked him to swim in the pond, he would've done it. He had so many questions he didn't even know from where to start. And Lestrade began in his stead.

"How long have you known him?"

There was no need to say the name. They both knew very well of whom they were talking about.

"Three weeks."

Lestrade's jaw fell open. John couldn't understand why, but he had to correct himself.

"No, sorry. I actually have known him for three days. I haven't seen him for two weeks, since, well, the crime scene."

"Are you a friend of his?"

"Who? Me? I'm his organic chemistry professor."

Lestrade gawked.

"What the…and he brought you to a crime scene! That's rather…unexpected…", the DI mumbled pensively.

"It was unexpected to me for sure.", John sincerely replied.

"Yeah, I bet."

The two walked in religious silence for a while, until John spoke again.

"And you? How long have you known him?"

"Five…no, six years."

"So you are his friend?"

"Me? You've got to be kidding! I'm just no one to him."

"You seemed to get along", John replied perplexed.

"You seemed too.", was the wry answer of the DI.

They stared at each other for some seconds before they both started to giggle.

"Ok. I guess we were both wrong about each other.", said John "But I can't seem to understand who he is, what is going on in his mind."

"Believe me, doctor Watson, no one can.", the DI wearily replied.

"But you've known him for six years! You must know something more than me!", John laughed.

"Want to bet?"

John shook his head, smiling.

"Enlighten me."

"Sherlock Holmes.", the DI started "He's the most brilliant mind I've ever stumbled upon in my whole career. Give him a case and expect it to be solved in a matter of hours. Where the police, myself included, fail, he shines bright. He's a lunatic, a loner and has got a taste for violence. He doesn't have any kind of attachment and he doesn't like people. I may be one of the few people he can stand, but only because I provide him with cases."

Lestrade stopped for a second.

"And yet he brought you to the crime scene…", he finished, mumbling.

John looked at him, puzzled.

"What does that mean?", he questioned.

"I don't know. It's the first time he does that. He has never brought anyone with him before."

They walked in silence for a while one more time, John lost in his thoughts about what the DI had just told him. He had been the first Holmes had brought to a crime scene. He didn't know if that should have made him feel flattered or scared to death. He broke the silence.

"Where did you meet him? How the two of you met? He can't just have popped into your office asking for a case!", joked John.

But Lestrade answered in a serious way this time.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, doctor Watson. It's complicate. He'll tell you sooner or later."

"I doubt that. I haven't seen him for two weeks. I'm actually quite worried."

"Don't be.", the DI smiled reassuringly "He does that now and then. He's probably been busy with a case on his own."

"Did you give him one?"

"No. But he often hunts for criminals alone."

"Isn't it dangerous?", asked John, more worried than earlier.

"Believe me, he knows how to defend himself. I'm more worried about the criminals who have the disgrace to meet him…"

Something in the DI's pocket started beeping. He took out a pager.

"Damn! Even on my day off!", he cursed "Sorry, doctor Watson, I've got to go!"

"John, please. No one calls me doctor Watson anymore."

"Ok, then. I'm Greg. Greg Lestrade."

And he ran off.

Like it had happened with Donovan, Lestrade left him with more questions unsolved. The DI had known the young man for six years and had said that he didn't know him at all. John felt defeated. Never in his life something had bugged him so much, never in his life he had had no answers to his questions at all. Maybe he should've asked those question to Sherlock Holmes himself. He laughed at the idea so much that some passers-by looked at him like he was insane. But the young man answering his questions was somehow exhilarating, because he knew that he would never had.

He sat on a bench and admired the birds flying just over the surface of the pond, tracing wakes with their webbed feet. He was so lost in his thoughts, he almost didn't notice a figure sitting near him, until the figure spoke.

"Good afternoon, doctor Watson."

The baritone voice made him flinch. He turned to the man.

"Mr. Holmes?", he gawked, completely astonished.

"You seem surprised.", he smirked.

"Well, I am. I bloody am."

"Why?"

"Why?", John asked, puzzled "Because I haven't seen you for two weeks! And you reappear right now in a place I didn't expect to find you! And I was worried!"

"Worried?", he turned to John, eyes wide open "Seriously?"

"Yes. Of course I was."

Had he just really said that? Oh well, he was relieved of seeing him safe, that he didn't mind having told him that.

"You've been gone for two weeks…", he continued "where have you been?"

"I have been busy."

"You've been busy with what? A case, I suppose."

"Some sort of. I've been busy trying to understand why a person who had seemed totally intrigued by a crime scene, had denied it seconds later. Isn't it ridiculous?", he smirked dryly.

John frowned. The young man was obviously talking about him. And John didn't know what to answer. Not true. He knew what to answer, he was just denying it one more time.

"What's your opinion, doctor Watson?", he teased.

"Well…", he cleared his throat, embarrassed under the inquisitive gaze of the young man "I think that person has done it because he was confused. Because I was confused. And I'm supposed to educate my students, Mr. Holmes, not to follow them around…"

"Boring. You enjoyed it. Stop denying."

"I'm not denying."

"If you think so.", he huffed in annoyance and took out a cigarette from his pocket.

John gave an askance look at him.

"I know. "Don't smoke, it's bad for your health", right?", he mimicked John's voice.

"Yeah. I was about to say that, Mr. Holmes."

"Just Sherlock."

"What?"

"You're making me repeat the obvious once again. No one calls me 'Mr. Holmes'. Sherlock will do."

"I am your bloody professor! For the heaven's sake, I can't call you 'Sherlock'!", John yelled in frustration, managing to make a couple stop and stare at him.

"I see no university around us. You don't need to be that formal outside the classroom.", the young man smiled wryly.

"Formalities are boring, uh?", teased John.

"Yes, John."

"Professor Watson.", John remarked.

"You are so boring."

"It seems so."

"Whatever.", huffed the young man.

Then he lit up the cigarette and started to smoke it slowly. John was ready to scold him for his smoking habit but stopped. Instead he observed him from a short distance. He had already had the chance to watch him, but not this close and not for much time, being him busy either with the lessons or with a crime scene. He had black curly hair of medium length, which laid down softly on his nape. His skin was of a flawless pale white, so that on his neck he could see the purple-blue of his veins. His eyes were of a soft aquamarine colour, with pearlescent reflections, as some Polynesian waters. They were icy and seemed emotionless, but they glittered in the light of the Sunday afternoon, reflecting the blue of the sky above. His upper lip was softly curved in the shape of a bow and was rosy, contrasting the paleness of the skin behind. He was tall, taller than John. John was now finding it rather intimidating, but not discomforting. And he was thin, lithe. His fingers were almost all bones, with the knuckles so prominent they seemed to be skinless. He was wearing his usual long blue coat with the blue scarf. Under it he had a white shirt, a bit tight on his chest. Black trousers and shoes completed the outfit. He was elegant and charming for a student of his age. But how old was he? Was the question popping up in John's mind. He could've been twenty-two or twenty-three, judging by the look. Or he could've been younger. Or older. The whole Sherlock Holmes, actually, seemed ageless. Yes, ageless was the right word. Like he was suspended in time. An enigma even in that little detail.

"Are you analysing my physical aspect?", asked the young man, abruptly but quietly.

John looked away, rather embarrassed and blushing red. Holmes didn't seem to mind. John swiftly changed the subject of the conversation, clearing his throat.

"I have met two persons today who told me about you…"

"Who are they?"

"Can't you deduce?", John sardonically replied.

"Can't be bothered right now.", he puffed a ring of smoke "It's a waste of brain for such small things. Just tell me."

"You're not fun at all."

"Says the boring professor."

John shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, it was a person who loathes you…"

"Lot of people loathe me.", Holmes stated frankly, quite pleased.

"Female. She calls you a freak."

"Oh. Professor Donovan, then. I'm her favourite.", he smirked more than wryly.

"Correct."

"What did she tell you? I'm intrigued…", the young man enquired.

"She told me some facts related to you. Like the explosion in the laboratory or the corpse you were dissecting in an empty classroom. I didn't believe her."

John smiled, proud of himself. Obviously Holmes couldn't have done all those things. She had been exaggerating on purpose.

"You should believe that. It's the truth."

For a second John thought that his jaw had just disarticulated in surprise. It took John some seconds to start thinking properly again. The young man had just admitted to have dissected a corpse in an empty classroom. Was he really a psychopath as Donovan had said? His doubts were probably evident on his face, because Sherlock (no, Holmes, he reminded to himself) replied with the umpteenth huff of annoyance:

"They were experiments. And Donovan has got it wrong."

"About what?"

"I'm not a psychopath."

He did that again, thought John. He had just read his mind. He felt somehow naked in front of that man.

"I'm a high functioning sociopath.", he concluded "She should research better."

John looked at him extremely puzzled.

"And…", he cleared his throat once again "why does she hate you that much?"

"I guess the reason is because I exposed her personal sex life in front of the classroom during my second lesson with her."

John gawked.

"You did what?"

"She was being annoying. She asked me a lot of useless question about her subject. They were boring questions. I gave her something more interesting. Strangely enough, she hated me from that moment on.", he smirked.

John should've kept a serious expression and should've totally told Holmes that his behaviour had been highly inappropriate once again, but he simply smiled. The young man looked surprised, and John felt a rather pleasant feeling inside him.

"And who was the second person?", inquired Holmes.

"A person who likes you."

"No one likes me.", the young man stated bitterly.

"At least one person does."

"Who?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed surprised. John felt the urge to say "I do", but bit his tongue instead and answered:

"Lestrade."

"Oh. Him.", Holmes replied as if he had expected a different answer "And what did Lestrade say about me?"

"That you are the most brilliant person he has ever met."

The young man seemed rather confused by the compliment and looked like he was trying to find a proper answer.

"You didn't say you don't believe him, did you?", Holmes asked cautiously.

"Why should I say that?"

"Because you said you didn't believe Donovan either."

"But I agree with Lestrade!", John said, quite perplexed by the other man's sentence.

"Really?", Holmes gawked, astonished, fixing him with inquiring eyes.

John felt his face turning red once again.

"Yes…", he turned away, unable to sustain the gaze "I also think you're brilliant."

Then, feeling he had crossed some uncrossable boundary, John added:

"Disrespectful, immature, arrogant, but nevertheless brilliant. Yes.", he smiled.

The young man looked at him with a more than serious face and John thought for a second he had upset him. But Holmes smiled back and started to laugh, looking up at the sky. John had never heard him laughing before and found the sound of it odd and comfortable at the same time.

They stayed in silence for a while, both lost in unknown thoughts. But John had one last question to ask for that day:

"Why me?"

Sherlock (no, Holmes, John repeated to himself) didn't seem to understand and stared at him completely puzzled.

"Lestrade told me I was the first you brought to a crime scene with you.", John explained "Why me?"

Holmes seemed to gather his thoughts.

"Because you're a doctor. Because you are not as boring as the others. And because you are not a complete idiot."

John blinked twice at the insolence of the man in front of him.

"I suppose I should take it as a compliment.", he smirked wearily.

"Whatever.", was the dry answer.

The young man eventually stood up and started to walk away from John, turning his coat collar up.

"Bye, John.", he said.

John tried to tell him again that calling him by his first name was totally inappropriate and unacceptable. But before his brain could even elaborate the thought, he found himself answering:

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

John clearly sensed an amused smirk on the other man's lips.