(Not Important) A/N- Please tell me someone has a Tumblr account. Please tell me someone was stalking the RP Blogs, and was screaming when (SPOILER ALERT) John and Sherlock were fighting, confessed their love, then Lestrade got stabbed while with Sholto, then JohnLock happened and they live together now and they're literally flirting on their blogs and Irene Adler is cheering them on and David (Mary's ex) is so damn thirsty for her and apparently now the baby was NEVER John's because Mary cheated on him with David so John isn't the father, and Mycroft is so damn cold to everyone but Lestrade, and apparently Colonel Lyons from Baskerville loves Captain Sholto, and Ms. Hudson is basically shipped with everyone and is apparently more popular than Irene, in terms of... You know. That stuff... Please, someone tell me that, I am dying and that is pretty much the only reason why I wrote this chapter up and posted it when I should be working on my other stories, and I am dying. Also, Mary's blog just makes me hate her more, the characters are so perfectly portrayed! Anyway, I'll stop bugging you and give you the chapter.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock blinks, turning his attention away from his Mind Palace and to the professor standing staring from the front of room, Anderson. He glances from his face to the onloooking expressions of his (unfortunately) fellow peers, various expressions ranging from disgust to boredom to half-asleep with eyes wide open. Sherlock glances back to Anderson, resting his head on his fist. "Yes, sir?"
A light scoff comes from the man, and he leans his palms against his cluttered desk, nodding his head in the direction of the board. "Mr. Holmes, if you'd care to pay attention, you would have understood the question I asked you. For future reference, please do pay attention in this class, you may be intelligent now, but it doesn't guarantee that you'll be some bigshot. You'll think of my advice when you're waiting tables at a run-down restaurant."
Sherlock narrows his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the right as he straightens up in his chair. Lestrade, who sits right by him, seems to immediately know what he's doing, and proceeds to try and stop him with a numerous amount of kicks to the shin, onces that Sherlock brushes off undeterred. Sherlock can hear Lestrade exhale sharply between his teeth as he drops his head into his hands as Sherlock drags his chair out, letting it squeal against the floors and gather everyone's attention again.
He stands up when he's ready, grabbing his bag and slinging it on as Anderson glares up at him. "Mr. Holmes, what are you doing?"
"If my intelligence doesn't matter for my future, then why should I waste my time in this boring class, especially when I already know this lesson- might I add, everyone knows this lesson, because this is the seventh time you taught it. Either you're just terrible at planning out the learning curriculum for this semester, or having Donovan scrub your floors yesterday night- judging by the state of her knees and the reek of your men's deodorant practically choking the air within a five feet radius of her- has completely disoriented you and you've decided to pass the day off by using your old notes to teach us again about carpal tunnels, because it's obvious that everyone who grows up to be a first grade english teacher will need to know about that." Sherlock starts to walk to the front of the room, peers gaping at him as Anderson flusters under Sherlock's scrutiny. Sherlock has to feel some bit of pride at that, smiling inwardly as the silence chokes the air and no one dares to move except him. He gets all the way down to the door before Anderson speaks again. "Where do you think you're going, Mr. Holmes?"
"Out. Seeing as I don't need review on this, I'll just leave." Sherlock pauses, palm flat against the door, turning his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. "Why should I waste my time listening to you babble on about something I already know, if my intelligence is going to lead me to a restaurant waiting tables? Might as well take the chance and go do something more useful to me, so in the future I won't be forced to become a boring Anatomy professor cheating on his wife because he finds his life absolutely tedious." With that, he walks out, letting the door shut by itself.
Sherlock can't help but smile at that, walking through the hall into the courtyard, a few kids already starting to occupy the benches, tables, and the shade under the trees, bags and people splayed about. He had Break in a few minutes anyway, he'd be fine. Wasn't the first time he walked out of a classroom. He sighs. Good times.
Sherlock walks over to a table under the shade of a blossoming tulip poplar and throws his bag down, sliding in the seat. It's his usual spot with Molly and Lestrade, so he'll just wait for them. Might as well, seeing as though they're usually the only ones whom Sherlock can tolerate, and who tolerate him. Well, besides John Watson.
John... Sherlock closes his eyes, bringing his hands up together up to his chin, diving back into his Mind Palace.
Various rooms filled with memories and things of use that could possibly come in handy sometime, knowledge of everyday life and things people usually passed by, looked at without a second glance. He strolls by a room marked with a brass nameplate, 'Molly', engraved in a flowing script. Followed by that is 'Brother Dear,' which is followed by 'Graham Lestrade', followed by 'Mummy, Father, and Redbeard'. He flinches when he passes that one.
At the end of the hall, on the door in the center, is a plate that says, 'John Watson'. He places a hand on the cool brass knob and turn it, opening the door and stepping inside.
Sherlock Holmes isn't sure what it is with John Watson, whether it be the rugby-playing-girl-player-goody-two-shoes mask he wore for everyone, or the troubled-child-with-family-problems-who-doesn't-act-like-the-real-him-around-everyone-except-possibly-Sherlock side, but... There's something to the boy that does... Something to Sherlock. His mind can focus clearly on a single problem or object when he wants to, instead of dealing with the endless stream of information running rampart through his brain. He became more controlled, and could work quicker. It was... Relaxing, in a way.
What the hell was happening to him?
A chime of laughter snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, his attention landing on Molly and Lestrade, both now sitting across from him chatting to themselves. They look at him, and smile, Molly leaning forward, "Did you seriously say all that to Mr. Anderson?"
Sherlock purses his lips and nods, and Molly breaks into laughter, Lestrade shaking his head with a smile. "You know, Anderson was fuming after you left, didn't speak for at least seven minutes. Then after, he just asked us if there was anything we needed to review again in case we didn't understand."
"I'm sure the first six times were more than enough for your tiny minds."
"... I'll try not to take offense to that."
"You can try."
Lestrade rolls his eyes, and Molly flicks her gaze between the two of them before looking down into her bag, pulling out her wallet. "I'm a bit hungry, do any of you want something?"
Lestrade shakes his head, thanking her, and Sherlock makes a sound in the back of her throat that Molly can only guess means no, so she nods and walks away, leaving the two boys alone at the table.
Lestrade straightens up, reaching into his bag and pulling out a packet. "You forgot your syllabus when you dramatically left Anderson's class." He passes it to Sherlock, who takes it and tosses it in his own bag without a single glance, nodding once in thanks. His eyes are turned just over Lestrade's shoulder, and trying to see what has his attention, Lestrade glances behind him.
A group of boys are laughing together, save for two, one who looks utterly confused, and one who stares blankly ahead with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. The other boys are nudging him, grins plastered on their faces. Lestrade turns back, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Why are you looking at them?"
Sherlock blinks, his eyes focusing on Lestrade as he straightens up, waving a hand. "Nothing, nothing."
"Isn't that, that boy you went out with? John?"
"It wasn't a date."
"He was wearing your coat, you were drinking his coffee, and you both were blushing and grinning. How wasn't it a date?"
"... It wasn't a date."
"Marriage, then, eh?" Lestrade smirks, and Sherlock rolls his eyes just as someone calls out to them, "Hey Sherlock! How do you know how someone's knees look after 'cleaning floors'!"
The group of boys break into laughter, a few of them hooting, and Sherlock rolls his eyes again as Molly sits back down, a brownie clutched in her small hands. "Uh... What do they mean?"
"The Anderson thing. Sherlock deduced him and his," Lestrade clears his throat, furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to think of a way to put it delicately, "Activities, last night, with Ms. Donovan."
Molly's eyes widen, and she very nearly drops her brownie. "Sherlock! You did that to the poor guy?!"
"He isn't a poor guy." Sherlock turns his gaze back to John and his group of hooting rugby friends, and their eyes meet across the courtyard, John pursing his lips. A moment later, when someone nudges John roughly in the ribs, then says something having to do with 'Sherlock', judging by the way the boy's mouth moves, John pushes the boy away. A different boy, the one who stood confused before, looks startled to John.
Sherlock drops his gaze, and Molly, chewing her brownie, covers her mouth as she speaks again, "Are you okay, Sherlock?"
"Of course I am."
"He's coming over to us."
"He is?!" Sherlock snaps his head up, and sure enough, John is walking over with the confused boy trailing behind him, the rugby boys staring agape at him. When John and the confused boy- Sherlock thinks his name is Mike- are by the table, John asks, "Can we sit with you guys?"
"Yes! Yes, you may." Sherlock says, making Molly jump at his excited and quick answer. Lestrade flashes him a smirk, and Sherlock rolls his eyes as John and Mike(?) sit down, John by Sherlock, Mike by Molly.
"Listen, I'm uh.. I'm sorry about my.. Those guys." John apologizes, running a hand through his hair, messing it up.
No product in hair this morning, despite my recent deduction, so doesn't seem to care anymore at this point, although it looks rather better than before. Seems to have a new toothbrush judging by the state of his lips- Uh, don't think about his lips- Damn it what the hell is happening to you?! He smells different, is he wearing cologne? Stop thinking about his smell, damn it. He's looking at you, he asked you a question, answer him- Oh, jacket is rather starchy, two days old at least, didn't bother cleaning it, just barely traces of bags under the eyes so sleeping better, seems to have lost two pounds
Sherlock blinks, and John stares at him, waiting for an answer to a question Sherlock didn't even hear. After a moment, Lestrade clears his throat, standing up. "I'm starving. So, John, Mike. You guys hungry? What something?" He hitches a thumb over to the Campus Canteen, a line forming, where Molly once was. She opens her mouth to speak when Lestrade flashes her a glance, and she shuts it, realization passing across her face. She stands, crumpling her brownie wrapper in her hands. "Yeah, Mike, c'mon, let's go get food. You're hungry, right?" Mike nods, and smiles as he starts to walk off with the other two, leaving John and Sherlock alone.
"... Are you going to answer my question?" John asks, leaning his elbows against the table with a smile. Sherlock unconsciously mimics the movement, sighing as well. "I don't particularly remember the question."
"You were in your mind palace, right?" John asks, eyes sparkling. Sherlock's lips twotch upwards, but he surpresses the growing smile, instead swapping it for a questioning expression.
"Oh, Greg and Molly explained it to Mike and I while you weren't paying attention." John answers, turning his eyes to the rugby group, now talking amongst themselves, flashing occasional worried glances and glares to John and Sherlock.
"... Why did you come over to us? You'll surely get hell for it later on." Sherlock states, focusing on John and the air around them. Slightly warm and buzzing with student chatter and birdsong from the treetops, John's hair a mess of blonde ash, blue eyes electric with a spark of a mix of emotion, his lips forming what seems to be a tight smile. John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cuts him off, "Don't do that."
"Don't do... what?"
"Don't wear a smile if you aren't happy. If you aren't happy, then don't smile. Don't fake anything around me, I'll see right through it. No need to worry."
John turns his head to Sherlock. Then smiles. And Sherlock knows this one is genuine, and he returns it.
John, satisfied and possibly even surprised at this response, looks straight again, a light chuckle coming from him. "So... The, um.." He clears his throat, licking his lips as he tries to think of the appropriate words to say, "Flat."
"221B Baker Street?"
John nods. "Isn't that the cafe though?"
"... There are flats above it. There are flats above that whole block."
John scrunches his face in confusion, and Sherlock bites back a laugh, "There are?"
"As ever do you see, but you do not observe, John."
A roll of his eyes is the response Sherlock gets. Then, after a beat, "Why would you let me stay at your place?"
Sherlock shrugs, looking to the figures of the other three, now coming back, at a rather slow pace, he notes. John sighs, disappointed at the answer he didn't get, and lays his head down on the table.
"... Are you okay, John?"
"Yeah." His eyes flick up to Sherlock's face, blinking and gazing at him for a moment. Sherlock can feel heat rush to his cheeks, and then, after a moment, he puts his arms on the table, dropping his head on them.
They're inches apart, their legs under the table just barely grazing, and Sherlock blinks, trying to will his mind to focus on something other than the boy by him. So he glances back to the trio walking to them, Lestrade sending him a thumbs-up. Which doesn't at all help Sherlock, so he hides his face in his arms, willing the blush in his cheeks to flee.
What the hell...
"Are... Are you okay? What are you doing?"
"Nothing, shush."
"I-"
"Shut up John."
"You don't-"
"Jam kittens, John."
"I hate you."