The Making Of A Primary Color
Chapter Five: "The Sherlock And John Thing"
A/N: This took longer than I'd hoped again, and I'm sorry, but a mild crisis occurred and, well, you get the picture. Theft is never a good idea, friends, don't put someone through that. I have since been reimbursed and should hopefully get back on track now. The time I spent away from this story actually had me work out a lot of future chapters, and I know exactly where it's going now. :)
Sally and Philip were kissing in a corner, Dimmock didn't show up after claiming he wasn't the partying type and never had been, and Greg had disappeared with the prettiest boy at the party about ten minutes ago to somewhere quiet and alone where they could . . . well, you get the idea. So that left John, the single one, to fend for himself at this party, where plenty of lesser known men and women were just dying to get their hands on him for fame.
Truth be told, he wasn't sure why he was even at this party. He was like Dimmock in the aspect that he didn't consider himself to be the "partying type", whatever that entailed. He preferred to drink alone. Not here. Actually, though, he could be looking to fix his loneliness problem, but "could" is such an unavailing word. Sure you can do it, but are you? That's the real question, and John had his answer already.
He'd had a talk with Marshall a couple of days ago to rid his head of this whole fake relationship thing with the girl band singer. He said that it was good for there to be a single member in a band because it keeps the fans on their toes with the theories and fan fiction and tabloid news articles and whatnot, and that for him to be single meant better publicity. Or some bullshit like that.
And through a miracle by God's hand, it worked. It didn't take nearly the amount of convincing or lying he thought he'd had to do. He'd planned for an hour-long debate with him on it, but he said that he'd been rethinking it himself and that he wasn't going to do it. Pure fate. Witchcraft, even. Marshall was not a man who changed him mind or had second thoughts often.
So John made his way through the home, giving polite smiles and handshakes to anyone who gave it to him first. He was one of the biggest names there, but definitely not the most famous. There was a little bit of everyone here tonight, but no one who would be completely starstruck upon entering. John would have been a few years ago, until he learned that musicians are exactly like everyone else, except people actually care about what they're wearing or their childhood fears or favorite color.
He finds his way into the main living room, where there are several couches filled with people. Some had drinks in their hands, some had cigarettes, others had chosen something a bit stronger to smoke, while the rest seemed to be on something even stronger than that. Someone with bloodshot eyes offers John a joint, which he politely refuses, and they laugh at him because apparently this isn't the first party they've offered it to him, and he's refused all times.
Across the room, a girl is draped across the couch with a drink in one hand settled between her legs. She tried to invite him in with pink glossy lips and flipping her mousy brown hair over her shoulder. John was going to carefully avoid her, but her friends were posted everywhere, not watching them per se, but would still notice if he brushed her off completely, and that was not something he wanted to do.
Her name was Iris, and she was a musician. Had been for about six years now. The same amount of time John had. But she hadn't been as lucky as he'd been, with the money and the tours and the singles on pop radio while still managing to maintain the usual fanbase. But despite not being very successful, she was somehow very in on the industry and knows a lot about her fellow musician's personal lives. Like, a lot. John still thinks she'd be a better TMZ reporter than a singer.
So she'd heard about his relationship status and how it was up for grabs. He didn't care enough to find out how she knew. No one ever knew.
Meanwhile, Sherlock kept posting pictures of himself and talking to him and texting him. Not that he was the only thing on John's mind at the moment. He checked his phone for any new texts, only to find none. He pocketed his phone and went over to Iris, figuring maybe she'd lose interest if she got to know him, if she decides he's not nearly enough of a risk-taker or reckless enough to be in a band. But that was the truth. She'd get bored with a boy like him.
"John," she greeted warmly, as if they were best friends.
"Hello," John answered, not as warm, a voice you might use when addressing a stranger because that's what they were to each other.
She patted the spot on the couch next to her for him to sit down, which he did, and she was a bit too close. Her thigh was pressed against his, despite there being plenty of room for her to give him some space. He was claustrophobic; he hated when people he didn't know were too close to him or made him feel trapped.
"Are you still on tour?" she asked, making friendly conversation. You know, before she tried to sleep with him.
"No," John answered, stopping the flat obviously that almost came out after the no. He'd been spending too much time with Sherlock. "We just got back."
"How's writing going, then?" she asked.
"Good. Very good."
This was John's problem with talking to some people. If they didn't click at some point, he would provide one-word responses accidentally and relied on them to supply the conversation material, and that was tiring to anyone, so of course they found an excuse to exit the conversation and move on to the next person, who actually wanted to talk to them.
"Have you visited everyone at home yet? Like your parents or girlfriend?"
There was a deliberate pause between parents and girlfriend. John debated whether or not he should entertain her anyway. She would find a way to get him to talk about it anyway, so there was really no point.
"Yeah. I saw my mum."
"Oh. How was that?"
He shrugged. "Same as always. She hugs me, cooks me dinner, takes pictures to show off on Facebook. The usual."
Iris laughed, but John wasn't trying to be funny. Really, it's what she did. It was a Watson family tradition that had been installed ever since he'd started going on big tours where he'd be far away. "Girlfriend, then?"
"No."
"Are you even still with Lainey?"
"No," he repeated, even though she knew damn well he wasn't still with her. It'd been a year, there'd been news articles, she'd said some things about it in interviews and hinted about it on social media. It was history that everyone knew, like Christopher Columbus sailing the ocean blue in 1492.
She opens her mouth with a grin settling on it, just as John's phone rings. He doesn't know who it is, but he swears he'll kiss whoever it is.
So of course it's Sherlock. One day, maybe.
John tried to pull off a sheepish, apologetic smile and laugh and points to the ringing phone. "I have to take this."
He jumped up and left the room, answering it as he walks out the door, putting his finger in the ear he doesn't have pressed against the phone to block out some of the noise, hoping Sherlock won't think he's busy. "Hello?"
"John," Sherlock said. John goes outside where he saw a pile of clothing lying on the grass and decided to not look in those bushes because God knows what he'll find. He leaned against a nearby tree with his hip and waited for Sherlock to say something else.
"Yeah?" he asked when he was still saying nothing.
"Where are you?" he asked curiously. He must have been listening to the group of loud, drunken people who were now outside, much to John's dismay. Anyone else would have asked 'is this a bad time?', but not Sherlock, apparently. Good. John rather liked his lack of manners. It wasn't that he was rude; he just didn't know the wrong things to say from the right ones.
For instance, a week ago, they hung out at some restaurant Sherlock liked, and John was in his "disguise" (that damn beanie and those sunglasses were starting to grow on Sherlock), but he still got recognized by some girl, and John would have been happy to sign whatever for her, but Sherlock informed her that he was most definitely not John Watson and that her boyfriend was out with her best friend and she needed to call one of them immediately.
He was astonishingly perceptive and pulls it out from time to time if it will benefit him. John would say he would make a good detective if he weren't so keen on music. But it made John nervous. He wondered if Sherlock could tell that he was a total schoolgirl over him. He wasn't dropping hints, but he always talks like an idiot around him and his cheeks turn red faster than a stoplight. But Sherlock blushes a lot, too, actually. He blushes so easily, John could wave and he'd be red in the face.
"Just this awful party. Don't worry about it."
"I wasn't."
"No?"
"Well, you're obviously not having a good time."
John smiled. "I'm really not," he said.
"I'm sure it's not that bad."
"I'm going to take you to one of these one day and let you see how it feels," said John.
"I would actually like that," Sherlock said quietly, like he wasn't sure if he was brave enough to say it or not. Before John could reassure him that he was totally fine with taking Sherlock anywhere he wants to go, literally, he changed the subject. "Well, the reason I called is to tell you that I got the song and listened to it a few times. Very good, by the way. Very . . . interesting lyrics. And I've written the violin part. Or, at least, a rough draft of it."
"The Violinist" was finished (John was pretty sure he was going to keep the title), and he'd whipped up a quick little acoustic track of it just to give Sherlock a general idea of what to compose. He'd even sang in it, which is something he vowed he'd never do again the day he met Micheal Dimmock. He'd gotten better over the years from doing backup during shows, but he still could never be a frontman. But he'd added in cute little jokes and funny side-notes to the audio just for Sherlock.
He'd only given it to him five days ago. The boy works fast. He trusted whatever he had whipped up, so he didn't understand why Sherlock was so stressed about it. He always knew when he was composing because he'd get a thousand texts a minute. (Does this chord work with yours? Would that sound good? Are you sure? This is an actual song on the next album? I'll be the one playing it? And this is exactly what you're looking for in this song? You're sure?)
Yes, he was sure it was what he was looking for.
"That's great, Sherlock," John smiled.
"Shall I play it right now or send you a video or . . . ?"
"No, I want to hear it in person."
He could almost see Sherlock raise his eyebrows that were a few shades lighter than the hair on his head, leading him to believe he dyed it. Those curls were natural, though. You can't fake curls like those.
"Really? Why?"
"Why not? I want the full experience."
Plus, he wanted to see Sherlock again. He hadn't seen him in about a week, which was pathetic considering he was already missing him terribly, even though he'll be seeing him again most likely soon after hearing it. But it seemed he couldn't get enough of him.
Sherlock's family knew that he was going to be playing for an actual, popular band, but they didn't know the full extent of his relationship with the bassist. He wasn't keeping it a secret or anything; they just assumed that when he said he was going out for coffee, he was going with a friend or going with John only to discuss music like business, not whether Bach or Tchaikovsky would win in a fight.
"You didn't play it for me in person."
"I'll play with you, then."
"You have to sing, as well."
John gave an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh. "Fine."
Sherlock laughed softly, and it was the best thing John had heard all night. The only thing that could sound better than that tonight is "You should be heading home, John," or "Ditch the party, come to my house, and kiss me." He wasn't picky.
"You're not that bad, you know. At singing," Sherlock said.
"But could I be the lead singer?" John asked lightly.
He laughed again. "No."
"Damn. Way to crush my dreams, Sherlock."
"Face it, John. You'll never make it in the music industry."
"I guess I'll never amount to anything."
By now they were both laughing, and John was leaned against the tree trunk with a smug smile set on his face, wishing he could see Sherlock's in person. The pile of clothing suddenly molded into humans who were loosely wearing the clothing (the guy's shirt was inside out and the girl had yet to fully pull down her shirt), and they ran by in a heap of laughter and sloppy, wet kisses, and John actually smiled at them.
"So, tomorrow?"
John snapped out of his trance at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "What? Oh. Yeah. Tomorrow. I can do tomorrow at, like, four. Where do you want to do it?"
"I'll have the house to myself. My house, I mean."
"Oh. Uh . . ."
They've never been to each other's houses. John's never been to Sherlock's because his parents might get weird if he brought home an older, famous bass player with him and went to his room with him, and Sherlock has never been to John's because . . . well, it'd just be weird. But for them to be all alone. That was the weird part. They could control themselves, of course, but alone, with no one else to guide the conversation or for them to listen to when they didn't know what to say.
"Is that not okay?" Sherlock sounded slightly alarmed, worried he'd said something wrong.
Is it okay? John has no idea. The line between okay and not-okay becomes blurred when it comes to Sherlock. John never knows what the fuck he's doing when he's around him. He has this effect on him that makes him forget the basic fundamentals of life and social skills, and it's all one big mess, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice because he's naturally an awkward guy who can't talk to people, so he doesn't get just how inelegant he makes John.
"No, no, it's fine. Just, uh, where do you live?"
And that was that.
xxx
"Okay, what about Fall Out Boy?"
"Met them ages ago. Good guys."
Sherlock had his bare, pale feet pulled under him on the couch, his couch, holding a cup of coffee with both of his hands, and his position reminded John of something from a Christmas commercial, a proud parent watching the kids open their presents and awaiting a piece of expensive jewelry before the commercial ends and it's brought back to reality.
Luckily they're not too close on the couch. There are three cushions on it, and John is on the far left, and Sherlock is in between the right and middle cushion. John had been at his house for the past hour or so, and he was starting to get worried about his parents suddenly coming home at this exact moment and he would have to hide under the couch like something from a sitcom, but Sherlock assured him it was totally fine for him to be there, but he got rather quiet every time John would ask if his parents knew he was there.
Sherlock's song was absolutely mesmerizing. John didn't really get violins; he never thought he would be able to play one himself. But Sherlock sure as hell got them. And not only could he play as well as the day is long, he could compose, too. That meant talent, that meant a future in music. But Sherlock still said he wasn't going to go after it. He was going to stick to what he was good at, according to him.
John was 100% sure Sherlock was at the top of his class, but this is what he's good at, just as good as he is at science.
"Hawthorne Heights?"
"Woah, mate, that's taking it back a little bit far. I stalked those guys on Myspace way before I was in a band."
Sherlock and John accidentally took a sip of coffee at the same time, and they made eye contact over the cups, which was much more intimate than it needed to be.
"Just seeing how long you've been doing all of this," Sherlock said. "Honestly, John, I only know 'Ohio Is For Lovers'."
John mock-gasped. "Wow, you fucking poser," he said, then takes another sip of coffee. It's not bad coffee, but Sherlock clearly is very enthusiastic with the vanilla creamer, and it's more like a very strong, hot cup of chocolate milk than coffee. "Any other bands from this era you want to know about?"
Sherlock considered for a moment. "What the hell is going on with One Direction?"
John laughed. Sherlock didn't know the half of it when it came to that band. "I'd tell you, but Modest Management would have to kill us both."
"I knew they had a lot of secrets." Sherlock looked into his cup, only to find it was empty, so he set it on the coffee table and appeared to not know what to do with his hands now that they were unoccupied. "What about your band? Are your lives run by management? Do you secretly hate each other?"
It was an easy answer, one that actually surprises a lot of people for whatever reason. "No, not us. But you'd be surprised at some of these bands who hate each other. They're good actors."
They never became one of those bands that start out as best friends then slowly drift until they want to asphyxiate one another with guitar strings. It was a fear of John's, he will admit, that they would become of those bands, but they weren't for now, and that was all that mattered, he supposed. Wasn't that the rock and roll lifestyle? To live in the moment? Maybe. He didn't know. What did John know about being a rock star when he was shy around an eighteen-year-old violinist who listens to boy bands and wears polka dot socks?
"Really? So when you say that they're your best friends, they really are?"
They're his only friends, actually.
"Yeah. I mean, I'd be lying if I said I'm not glad to get a break from Greg Lestrade after living on a bus for weeks with him, but everyone would get like that, even best friends. I think Sally even gets tired of her boyfriend if he tags along for a few shows, and they live together in an actual home."
Sherlock is quiet for a little while, and he looks longingly towards the cup on the table like he wants to have it to hide behind. "Can I ask you something personal?"
John nearly chokes on his strong, hot cup of chocolate milk. "If it's not too personal, then go ahead."
This comment only makes him quieter, but he finally spoke, and John has to lean in to hear his already deep voice speak lowly, "Is it true that you and your guitarist are fucking?"
Oh, God, that's a relief. John actually laughed. Him and Greg, fucking. He can live with the shipping the fans do; it's not like there's anything he can do about it. But to hear this from someone just makes him want to laugh some more. So he does.
"No, Sherlock, we're not fucking. Greg is fucking everyone else, and I'm not fucking anyone at all."
Perhaps that was a weird way to word his situation. John wants to punch himself in the face until he breaks his nose.
"Oh. Okay," Sherlock said. His phone in his lap vibrated, and he picks it up, the screen enhancing those perfect features. John wants nothing more than to just touch him again, to feel his hair and skin once more . . . "My parents are on their way home."
That's John's queue to leave. He doesn't allow himself to think for one moment that Sherlock made that up to get him out because he doesn't want to think about it. He used to be so good at not thinking about things he didn't want to think about. What the hell happened?
"Right, okay. Bye, Sherlock, thanks for the coffee. And the song. The song is fantastic."
Sherlock stood as John did and handed him his jacket, which John mumbled a "cheers" to and put it on. He walked him to the door and they stopped before opening it, a wordless communication because they couldn't leave it like this.
"Will you be in touch?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah, of course," John said.
Then for the next two or three seconds, Sherlock was wrapped in his arms in the world's briefest hug.
"Thanks," John said and doesn't realize it until he's outside and driving home.
