After a long wait, here's Sherlock and Ivy's date! (that rhymed as well omg)
I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and Boxing Day; I was aiming to have the Christmas chapters written and uploaded for now but, alas, I'm way behind my original schedule, sorry! Anyhow, here's Chapter Eight - which, as I will warn you, does have a little bit of slash at the end - it's kind of my first so be kind haha! I'm a bit unsure about it, but hey-ho.
Review? :-)
Chapter Eight
Ivy stood in front of her mirror, applying her red Chanel lipstick delicately. It was almost half seven and the darkness outside was illuminated by those lamps. She could still hear the wind from earlier batter around the campus.
She had just finished blotting her lips when there was a confident rap at the door. Forcing back a shameful beam, she made her way to the door and opened it, finding Sherlock standing there, looking even more… Sherlock than usual, oddly. He stood tall, his back straight, sporting a purple silk shirt under a black blazer. Despite his neat clothing, his dark curls were just as unkempt and tousled as usual. Over the crook of his elbow lay his navy overcoat, also looking as dishevelled as its owner.
"Good evening," he flashed a smile.
"Hi, come in," Ivy went back into her dormitory, leaving Sherlock to step inside and close the door. "Sorry, I'm running slightly late… Just make yourself at home."
Sherlock stepped in through the doorway and let himself glance around quickly. He cautiously sat down on the edge of her bed, creasing the freshly made sheets. Ivy hurried into the bathroom, kicking the door but not closing it fully.
Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from darting around the room; he needed more data about her. He couldn't understand why he felt so compelled towards the brunette, but at the same time, he desperately needed to know more about her. He inhaled every detail he could possibly compute, observing his surroundings. Her dormitory was the same layout as every other, but for a bookcase absolutely overloading with books upon books - a reader, if it was obvious from the start, he deduces. Also, she appreciates the finer things in life - she had decorated personally, with little vintage style knick-knacks, wall art and even some fairy lights around the window, giving the box room a warm glow. She has an imagination.
His gaze flickered over towards her desk. Underneath, her wicker bin was half full - a couple of Coke cans, mostly paper, some pasta pots from Morrison's. He stood up and walked over. She had brought in an old TV and DVD player, from home, with a DVD case open on top with the disc missing - Submarine, directed by Richard Ayoade, he read, was the last film she watched. The same crumpled packet of Parisian cigarettes was tucked under a battered copy of The Great Gatsby, which was obviously her favourite book, and it also told him she hadn't smoked since that night, otherwise they'd be in her coat pocket and he hadn't smelt their peculiar scent on her. It isn't that she wants to keep it a secret, or she wouldn't have smoked so freely in public before. Plus, the packet had almost been empty, and it still isn't since she hasn't thrown it out. Placing the book back down, he noticed a set of family photographed, framed, hidden behind a pile of study guides and text books. There were three - one quite old, with what could only be her parents, and two more modern ones, of Ivy with what looked like siblings, an older brother and sister. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. She values her studies more than her family, or not particularly close to them, but still feels obliged to put out their photographs.
Turning his attention to her bursting bookcase, he moved over and observed the piles of books. All ordered alphabetically by the authors' last names, so she has some order when it comes to tidying. She had a range of literature, from Shakespeare's sonnets to Harry Potter. Judging from the spines, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was also one of her favourites. Some of the shelves were taken up by DVDs, piled up strategically to fit as many as she could - a film lover as well as a book lover. On the bottom shelf stood a vast list of old vinyls, tucked away next to a record player.
He stood back up tall, and turned towards the other side. There was the faint smell of Ivy's scene, and it was the same as the other night: empty, dark, the second bed without any sheets. Completely impersonal, compared to Ivy's half. No, her roommate hadn't arrived yet, but she was expecting one soon, hence keeping that side plain.
As he concluded, Ivy opened the bathroom door again, smiled and slipped on a pair of black brogue-style heels. She wore a floaty black blouse with a crocheted collar over a black body con skirt with sheer tights. She slipped on her coat and, as she grabbed her bag, she pulled her brown waves out at the neck. Sherlock opened the door onto the stairwell and, letting Ivy go first, he followed, pulling on his own navy coat as they hit the winds outside.
"I am sorry for making you wait," Ivy said as Sherlock strode up beside her. They set off, making their way off campus, together. "I totally didn't realise what time it was - got a bit carried away with an essay."
"It's fine, really," Sherlock replied. "I don't mind at all, and besides, it gave me time to think of a restaurant," he added, grinning.
"Oh yeah? So, where are we going?"
His smirk widened. "You'll see."
Ivy felt a smile play on her lips at how mysterious he was being about the restaurant. They had reached the edge of the campus and Sherlock was leading her towards their desired street. The wind whipped them, but neither let the cold lashes prevent conversation and laughs between them. They had almost reached the main street when a black-haired man sauntered out of the shadows in front of them.
Sherlock stopped as soon as he saw the suited man, causing Ivy to stop a couple of steps after, right between both males. With a perplexed look flashing across her face, she looked back at Sherlock and then up at the other.
"Sherlock," the black haired man sang out, "I'm hurt."
Sherlock sighed and kept walking, catching up with Ivy. "Jim, go away, can't you see I'm on a date?"
"You don't go on dates!"
The jealous outburst stopped Sherlock, and once more he turned towards the other. "Evidentially I do."
The other - Jim - glanced at Ivy, his eyes absorbing her head to toe. "She's not your type, anyway." He turned fully to her and added, "Baby girl, you have no idea who Sherlock is, do you?"
Ivy stared at him, and then back at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes had narrowed, a snarl had replaced the relaxation from before.
"Fuck off, Jim," interrupted the silence as Sherlock began to walk away again. Ivy caught up as she heard Jim laugh, almost hysterically, and shout something like, "You'll miss me, Sherlock!" through the blaring winds.
Ivy could feel the atmosphere had changed; Sherlock looked exactly like the wind storm they were walking through - it was obvious he wasn't fond of this Jim. His stride had quickened, but instead of trying to catch up with him, Ivy paused after they rounded a corner. Sherlock noticed this straight away and sighed.
"I know Jim Moriarty from back in my home town - he was just a bit of fun," she heard him grumble.
It took her a couple of minutes to understand, and then she released an "Oh…" in realisation. "So, you're what? Bisexual? Which is fine, by the way -"
"I know it's fine," Sherlock interrupted her, before scowling into the road. "It's just -"
"Sherlock, I don't really care. Personally I think you could've done better, but I don't care. Now, are you going to take me to this restaurant or not? Because I think I'm hungry enough to empty Oxford of all it's food at this precise moment in time," She asked, smiling playfully.
Sherlock blinked, taken aback, but then smiled back at her, and let wind blow the angst off his chest and continued the conversation as if the encounter with Jim hadn't even happened.
They found the restaurant within the next ten minutes, Like a gentleman once more, Sherlock opened the door for Ivy and once he'd given his name to the waiter, they were shown to a table. The restaurant was quiet and small, but with an atmospheric set up. Build in an old building, there were old age wooden pillars across the ceiling, and the lighting was low and warm. Their table was in front of the window, and since it was one a side street, the view wasn't particularly distracting.
Sherlock helped Ivy out of her own coat before he took his off. As soon as they were seated, the waiter handed them their menus and asked for drinks politely. "Water and a Coke," Sherlock told him, "and I think we'll just share a large margarita pizza." He looked over to Ivy, as if for her approval. The waiter scribbled down the order and walked away, leaving them alone.
"I don't eat that much and I don't think you do, either, so why not just share?" Sherlock explained, brushing his fingers through his dark curls, leaving ringlets fall onto his pale forehead.
"Good logic," Ivy agreed, as the waiter arrived with their drinks.
"So," Sherlock began, "I know you were lying the other day, when you said you had a lecture."
Ivy paused, but then remembered and giggled, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh, don't take it personally."
"I didn't," Sherlock replied, flashing that smirk at her.
"How did you know?"
"You were walking away from both the English and the Languages seminar rooms," he explained, as if it was obvious.
"So, what else have you found out?"
Sherlock laughed and looked at her. Those blue eyes were enough to make Ivy want to melt. "You have an eye for the rarer things in life, and you're a book lover and a film lover. Your favourite book is The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald - it's the most battered and read. According to your desk, you have your textbooks in front of your family photographs, suggesting you aren't particularly close to them."
Ivy flickered her gaze away for a moment, but then focused back onto the matter at hand. Sherlock noticed this, of course, but before he could say anything, the waiter arrived with their pizza. As they tucked in, Ivy pointed the conversation towards her companion. "So, is that what you do? You 'deduce' things?"
Sherlock smiled. "Yes," he responded, "I observe, and then deduce my conclusions from my observations."
"John mentioned you were a sociopath."
He nodded, taking a sip of his water. "A high-functioning sociopath. I collect the data and my brain works with the logic - it's all elementary. People see but they don't observe - if everyone just observes and just thinks, then what I do wouldn't be so odd. Their brains are so vacant, boring, idiotic." Ivy raised an eyebrow. "And most of the idiots don't react well to the difference between me and them."
"It's awful - you can't help it!"
"What about your family?" Sherlock asked, brashly.
Ivy was taken aback by the sudden change of conversation. "Erm, well, you know." Sherlock stared at her, puzzled. She sighed. "I've never been particularly close to my family, like you said. University was my ticket to be away." She bit into another slice of pizza as Sherlock laced his fingers together, just below his chin.
"Most of the photographs were taken on special occasions - birthdays, Christmas - suggesting that you aren't very close to them, but the photographs with your parents are old and the photographs with your siblings are more modern; My guess is that your parents died when you were younger, and as soon as your brother - the eldest sibling - was old enough, he raised you himself."
Silent, Ivy took a drink of her Coke. "It happened when I was eight," she slow explained. "My brother was 18 already so he took me and my sister in as soon as possible. Luce didn't take it well and Zach tried to be the good protective brother but he landed himself an apprentice course and ended up having to work nightshifts at Shad Sanderson. This placement here at Oxford was the best thing that ever happened to me - anything to get away from it." Her eyes never left the wooden surface of the table, causing Sherlock to apologise quietly. However, she quickly snapped out of her trance and smiled at Sherlock, who couldn't take his eyes off Ivy. Almost disconcertingly, she was the only thing he could focus on.
Once they had finished their pizza, Sherlock coolly asked a passing waitress for the bill. He paid, whipping his bank card out of his leather wallet, not to impress Ivy since he knew she didn't care for it. The wind had died down from before, but an early autumn breeze still swept through streets as they walked back to the campus. Despite it being quite mild, Ivy was shivering slightly under her thin coat. Sherlock frowned slightly, before shrugging his thick layer off and and wraps it around her shoulders, his grip lingering just for a couple of seconds longer before letting go and silently apologising. The way they chose to take back to the campus took slightly longer, passing through a small park area. Ivy filled the night air with giggles and laughter, as Sherlock continued his babbles on his experiments, Sebastian's reactions to them, and also on his deductions of other students at the university. Sherlock talked and entertained; he was surprised to find he enjoyed having someone laugh with him rather than at him for once.
Ivy stopped walking, still chuckling, and sat on a bench, using the backrest as the seat. Sherlock joined her, balancing himself perfectly. The bench overlooked the rest of the park, and some residential areas. No stars could be spotted, the alluring golden glow of the lamplights obstructed the night sky.
They sat in comfortable silence, until Ivy quietly interrupted it. "Moriarty", she slowly mumbled.
"What?"
Ivy snapped her gaze over to Sherlock face. He had raised an eyebrow towards her and his eyes screams perplexity. "Oh, nothing, it's just… It's just I'm sure I've heard that name before."
…
Sherlock lay on his back and stared out of the window, fully dressed. He had lay there, in the same position, for almost two hours. The crescent moon leered in through the unprotected glass, into the dark and silent dormitory. He was alone; Sebastian hadn't been seen, but Sherlock knew he was most probably out getting drunk somewhere with his rugby team. His dormitory had remained silent since he returned from his date with Ivy.
He suddenly felt a twinge in his lips for a smile at the thought. Ivy. Everything about her - from her ultra feminine laugh to the way she tucks her hair behind her right ear, almost subconsciously - intrigued him in such a way that was foreign to him. No other girl had made him have this reaction before - he'd been attracted to many, but never like this.
His mind was overflowing with Ivy, and he could feel it. He absently slid a soft hand down, the other swiftly moving to his neck, his pulse. He counted the beats, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… as ventured into the band of his trousers, hearing himself let out a forced, strangled moan. Rubbing himself, violently, he arched his back, gasping into his pillow.
15, 16, 17, he grasped his cock tightly, tilting his head backwards. 23, 24, 25, 26. Hips bucking, breathing shuddering, barely controlled, pulse quickening. 42, 43, 44, he stroked, violently surging. 59, 60, 61, 62 - he ripped his hand away from his pulse, grabbed the sheet, knuckles whitening.
"Oh, fu-uck," he breathed as he felt the hot semen over his fingers and clothing. His cheeks were completely flustered, the scarlet contrasting with the paleness, and speckled with sweat. As he let go of his grips, he limply rolled over to face the wall and let his heartbeat slow.
