The Making Of A Primary Color


Chapter Three: "Take Me Home"


Over the next few days, John found himself thinking about the weird boy with the weird way of speaking who happened to give great hugs more so than he originally thought he would. It wasn't unusual that a person he met at a show would stick with him; some of their personalities were too unforgettable. But this was different. He'd be on stage, and would randomly wonder out of nowhere, I wonder what Sherlock Holmes is doing right now.

Yes, John had found an Instagram account, and no, he was not a stalker. He just got curious and figured it wouldn't be hard to find him on any social media with a name like that and looked it up quickly, explored a few posted pictures and photos he was tagged in and left. It wasn't like he'd gone 100 weeks in and liked every picture after following him, although Sherlock was apparently following him. As of the night they officially met, actually. There was a picture of him and Molly at the show, but no mention of what band it was or who he'd spoken to afterwards.

There were more pictures and videos of his instrument than himself, John noticed, but it wasn't an instrument John was familiar with. John didn't need a bow to play the kind of bass he played, which wasn't the kind of bass Sherlock was used to. John found himself entranced by the fifteen-second clips of him playing solemn melodies on his violin like a professional. Then there were photos of it, like one of a violin case, a new one, apparently (it was captioned "A new case for my baby"), and then there were pictures of him at school shows or whatever he was in, standing with other kids with orchestral instruments, all girls clad in fancy black dresses with their hair in loose chignons if the length allowed it, and the boys in white dress shirts with bow ties that Sherlock always tied more freely on his neck than the others, like he was ready to take it off as soon as he was done.

Plus, John noticed there was a boy, a cello player, who was next to Sherlock in almost every one of these group pictures. John had to sift through several of the boy's selfies on his account, but then he found Sherlock popping up in a few. They were innocently captioned ("Going to see Whiplash with my favorite person!" "He's so adorable," "Wishing my love good luck tonight!"), but there were pictures with an arm around Sherlock's waist or pictures of them obviously lying in a bed together, and John found one of them kissing. It was a sweet little peck with their lips both exaggeratedly puckered and they were smiling through it, captioned with some sappy alternative band's lyrics and several hearts after the lyrics, but still. Kissing.

The pictures and captions, and Sherlock's comments on the pictures, started to get a bit flirty last year and actually started to refer to Sherlock as his boyfriend a few weeks later. Then they carried on for like four or five months before stopping. Then came the sad pictures with the depressing lyrics and despairing quotes, and John figured that was the end of that. The cello player had a new boyfriend now (who wasn't nearly as cute as Sherlock, John added in without realizing), but Sherlock didn't. He had the occasional comment on a picture of him asking him why he was so perfect, but they were all from girls in Iowa or boys in Australia or somewhere equally as far.

Not that that meant John was going to go for him. He couldn't. Besides, Sherlock was back in London right now while John was in Ireland. Except when the tour ends, John will be back home in his lovely London flat . . . God, he was pathetic. Here he was, a twenty-two-year-old man with a £4,000,000 net worth, fawning over a guy he'd only met once like a teenager. He may never see Sherlock again, anyway.

There were five more shows to play, an interview in Leeds, some songwriting with Greg because they'd been neglecting to do so, and then he'd be free to go home for a while. His flat was spacious and charming, with primarily black and white minimalist decor that his close family members who didn't care to tell him that it didn't seem very "him" when they visited. John was a warm person whose room growing up tended to be messy, but not too messy, and painted invitingly, with posters hanging on the walls and stacks of DVDs and CDs lined against them.

Now his room barely had anything in it. At least, not in the sense that he had a tower of movie cases in front of his TV to hold up the RCA cables of a gaming system that kept shorting out, like he did as a teenager. He had his bed, his dresser, a nightstand with a light, some art, and a floor-to-ceiling window that gave a great view of the city. It looked cold, he thought, like it belonged to an unhappy person.

John was very happy, honestly, and was a nice, good person. The only thing he needed to fix the problem, according to his mum, was another person living with him.

"Well, it's just so lonely, Johnny," she'd said the first time she visited, her jacket pulled tight around her like the place thoroughly creeped her out, but then her face lit up like she'd had some kind of revelation. "Oh, I know what would make it better! Since it is your first time living on your own and it's so big and far away from me, you should get a flatmate."

That had led to a conversation interrogating John about his love life and when he was planning on getting married and whether or not he planned on having kids for her to spoil. John would mumble something like "I don't know," or "Maybe," to her questions sheepishly, shying away from the fact that he didn't have anyone remotely interested in him. Then, after he reminded her that he was only twenty, she patted his shoulder and said, "Of course," a sad look in her eyes as if she knew the truth.

He understood why she was so upset. When John moved out, it left her alone. He was her only son, born when she was only eighteen to a boy who'd abandoned them and cut off contact to them after he was born. He'd basically been raised by his grandparents for the first few years of his life while his mother went to university, but after that, it'd been fine. They'd done well, but now she had no one to fuss over or wake up for school or make sure he cleans his room.

John would love to give her a son-in-law or daughter-in-law and some grandchildren, but for one, he was too young, and also he didn't have anyone. It'd be good to start a relationship right now, now that he was just now growing into a full-fledged adult and could financially take care of himself and another person.

His last real relationship had been a year ago, with a girl named Lainey. She'd been beautiful and smart and kind, but John's career was too much for her to take, resulting in her ending things after seven months. After her, it'd been a few dates and one-week flings here and there, but nothing like what would fill the void that had formed in John's chest that had accumulated over the past few years.

So, for whatever reason, John voiced his concerns.

"Are you seriously worried about dying alone because you haven't dated anyone in a few months?" was Sally's response.

"Try online dating or something. Just don't, you know, mention how rich or famous you are," was Dimmock's response.

"Chat up that boy you keep looking at," was Greg's response and the last one John was going to hear.

The boy he was referring to was Sherlock, after he'd decided to stop being a thirteen-year-old and followed the damn Instagram account, and Greg had taken notice of him during one of their songwriting sessions. It was a slow day. They'd gotten one song written, and now they were just dabbling with random lyrics and intros, which wasn't going anywhere. After some hesitation, John showed him a picture of Sherlock and asked what he thought of him. Not that he wanted to know what Greg thought of his looks, but usually if he said, "Looks like a prat," or "I don't trust his face," it meant something and was correct.

Greg scrutinized the picture. "Cute," he finally said. "Wait, isn't that the guy you were talking about after the London show?"

"Yeah. Sherlock." John shrugged. "He's nice."

"Nice?" Greg snorted. "You've been mooning over him all week. Talk to him."

It wasn't the first time the suggestion had been made and wouldn't be the last. John was looking at a new picture of him that he'd just pointed when Sally had been walking by, who rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, my God, just talk to him," like it was the easiest thing in the world.

John tried to talk to Dimmock about it because he was a shy guy who couldn't talk to girls for anything, but he had a girlfriend, so it made sense. But when John expressed his feelings about the situation, he'd just shrugged and said, "Talk to him."

No one seemed to understand how daunting the task was. Okay, maybe it wasn't so daunting. Scary as hell, maybe, but that was advanced as an adjective it received. John finished the shows, the interview, and got some songwriting done, and still hadn't spoken to Sherlock, even after coming home. He'd decided not to speak to him at all, but fate had decided that was unacceptable.

It was late at night, and John was walking around with sunglasses on. Greg said he looked like a complete arsehole, and that the grey beanie he had on only made it worse, but he didn't want to be recognized. He fucking hated sunglasses, anyway; you can't see a thing. He'd gone out to dinner and walked the streets a bit afterwards, since it was a thing he'd always loved to do ever since he was a child. Granted, now he had more freedom as to where he could go and where he could go, but still, walking calmed him down.

John had just opened his car door to get in and go home, when he saw a familiar head of curls bouncing away, a long black coat swishing behind him. No way, was John's first thought and almost ignored it, passing it off as seeing it only because he wanted to and that he was only associating it with Sherlock because of the hair. And the gait. And the shoes. And, hey, that kind of looked like his cheekbones.

On a whim, John closed the car door and tried to catch up to the person, although keeping his distance in case it wasn't actually him, because what were the odds, really? But then he saw the side of his face. Yep, definitely Sherlock. He was bent over his phone, typing away, closed in on himself, which made him look even thinner than he already was.

"Uh, hey," John said with that romantic-comedy have we met? voice, after he'd fully caught up with Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, didn't even turn around and began walking away, quickly. "No," he said shortly.

He probably deserved that for thinking that trying to talk to a boy this late in London was a good idea.

"No, wait," John tried.

"No, I don't need a ride. No, I don't have any change. No, I don't want to talk or get to know you better. No, I—" Sherlock stopped mid-word, his mouth prepared to form the word "don't", John presumed, when he saw who was talking to him. "Oh. It's you."

John had taken off the sunglasses and hung them on the V of his shirt, left with the beanie that weighed down his hair against his forehead in straight blonde locks. These things were much more suited to features like Sherlock's, where the curls could stick out adorably. John only wore it to hide his identity. "Kind of harsh. Not even a quarter or two?"

Sherlock sent one final text before stuffing the phone in his coat pocket. "What are you doing here?"

"Stalking you," John said, and it was obviously too soon for sarcasm in this relationship because Sherlock looked mildly alarmed. "Not really. I was just taking a walk. We just got home yesterday."

"Oh, is your tour thing done?"

John snickered. "Yes, the 'tour thing' is done," he said. "What about you? Recover from your bad day?"

"I'm learning to accept it and move on," he answered.

A silence fell upon them, only the sounds of passing cabs and cars filling it. They stared at each other, eyes locked in a transfixed manner, and John saw the lights of the city once again reflected in his light eyes. Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke.

"I've been listening to your band," he said. "You're good."

Yes, Sherlock had been listening to them. And watching interviews and live performances and YouNow's and other things he thought he couldn't be bothered to do a few weeks ago, before he'd met John Watson. It was a silly little teenage crush that had come late instead of when he was fifteen like it was supposed to. He knew there was no chance between them, but it was fun to fantasize about and sometimes quite humorous at just how ridiculous he was being.

John beamed, still finding it hard to believe that there were actual human beings who listened to his music and thought it was good. "Yeah? Thanks." Should he compliment Sherlock's violin skills, or would that come off as creepy? Ah, hell, what did he have to lose? "You know, I saw your violin playing. It's amazing."

Sherlock smiled, and it actually looked sad. A sad smile. Fuck, he'd said something wrong. "I'm glad someone thinks so," Sherlock said, the words not sounding right with his deep, confident voice. "But it's not like I'm going to be a professional player or anything."

"Hold on, you're not?" John asked, incredulous. So many talented musicians didn't want to do it for a living because of monetary concerns or the fear of failing, but John had never done that. He'd known almost from the beginning that he was going to be a bass player professionally and that he was going to be successful at it. He wouldn't accept it any other way. But for Sherlock, this boy who had resoluteness and talent shining so brightly, it bewildered him to think he wasn't going to go for it.

"No, there are other things I'm good at. I mean, honestly, do you think I'm going to spend all that money on a music school with the risk that I might not even make it?"

John gestured to himself. "If I can make it, anyone can. I'm not anything special, and look at me now, I made it."

"People like you, though. It's not just about talent anymore; you have to be likable."

"You are likable."

Sherlock laughed humorously at the notion. "You'd be surprised. In fact, someone called me insufferable just earlier today. That's a new one."

"Well, Sherlock, I don't think you're insufferable. I think you're special and talented and likable, and maybe you really don't want to be a violinist, but if you do, don't let anything stop you." He paused. "Now, in all seriousness, do you need a ride home?"

Sherlock grinned at him. "Is that safe? Letting one's stalker know where they live?"

"If they're a good stalker, they already know."

"No one's going to take my picture with you and post it online, are they?"

"I don't think they will," John answered seriously. Sherlock hadn't intended it as a serious question, but it was an actual concern that could happen. To ensure it didn't happen, John took his sunglasses and put them on as he and Sherlock turned around and walked to his car.

"Sunglasses at night?" Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, all this success has really gone to my head."

John pulled out his keys and unlocked his car with the click of a button, the sound leading them to it. He held open the passenger side for Sherlock, who rolled his eyes playfully at the gesture, but got in anyway. John started the car, the radio flicking on and the lights turning on and the heat warming them.

Sherlock was quiet, other than telling John the directions to where he lived. At one point, a Doll's Minor song came on the radio, making John blush as Sherlock laughed at him.

"That's awkward," John said, turning the channel to an 80s station.

"You definitely did that on purpose," Sherlock said, still laughing.

"I did not," John said, and he couldn't help but smile.

"I bet you called in and requested it before I got in."

John reached over and poked Sherlock in the ribs, which only made him giggle louder. So he was ticklish, then. Duly noted.

"I'm going to drop you off here and let you walk the rest of the way."

"Guess what, John."

"Hm?"

"We're here."

"Of course we are," John said, pulling over and stopping. "So that means I can kick you out of my car."

"Bye," Sherlock said, propping the door open, flashing John a quick smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."