As they walk back to the classroom, John glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, trying to focus more on his facial expression than the way his thin gray t-shirt clings to his chest.
"What have you dissected before?" Sherlock asks, purposely breaking the silence and giving John something to think about that doesn't involve his naked body (he'd seen John's covert glances and dilated pupils, and wanted to turn the impending conversation away from himself before John consciously realized what he was doing and it became awkward).
Happy to be on a comfortable topic, John starts to list a variety of animals that has Sherlock wondering if he'd ended up with a particularly charming psychopath for a lab partner. "A dog, a few feral cats, several small mammals –guinea pigs, hamsters and the like- one African Grey parrot, some birds that the feral cats killed- oh, and I helped perform a Caesarian section on a cow once."
Sherlock tries to think of a polite way to ask how John had come across so many dead animals (or if he was the one to cause their deaths, and then took advantage of the situation) before John hurriedly explains after he sees the slightly disturbed look on Sherlock's face.
"I lived with my aunt for a bit a few years ago, and she's a veterinarian in the country. I was allowed to do autopsies on some of the animals brought in- I didn't go around stabbing at people's pets or anything." John bites his lip until Sherlock lets out a small chuckle.
"Do you enjoy setting fires?" Sherlock asks, a smile dancing around his lips. "That, bed-wetting, and torturing small animals are three of the signs that psychologists use to predict future psychopaths. I'd say you qualify for a mental examination for the animals alone."
"Belt it," John grins, playfully shoving Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stares at John's hand for a bemused second (John remembers Sherlock's aversion to physical contact and worries briefly) before shoving John back. John's resulting whole-hearted push sends Sherlock spinning through the open door of a classroom filled with terrified looking younger children, obviously in their first year of schooling at Conan Doyle Academy.
Sherlock pauses for a second before a cheerful "Welcome to London!" escapes his lips and he slips back into the hallway. John is staring with an odd smile on his face before he laughs.
"You do realize we're not actually in London, right?" John asks, half-serious.
"Pity. If we were the crime rate would be higher, and my life wouldn't be nearly as dull as it currently is." Sherlock sighs the sigh of the long-suffering and brushes the curls out of his eyes in a disinterested manner.
"I wouldn't consider getting mugged in the street an acceptable change from being begged for spare cash," John indulges in a brief worry that his lab partner is actually a kleptomaniac (and a short few seconds to appreciate his hair and arm musculature- in a completely aesthetic manner, of course, with no sexual connotations) before Sherlock clarifies.
"I spend much of my time solving crimes- they're more interesting than schooling, for the most part." Sherlock predicts John's next question with ease, and answers it accordingly. "The police consult me unofficially- my brother's 'friend' is on the force, so he brings me files if they can't solve a case. Which is almost always. Occasionally I even get to legally see the crime scene." Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking the gesture as a chance to sneak a look at John.
"I want to come to a crime scene sometime," and John surprises him yet again. "It does sound more appealing than school. And by 'friend,' should I assume you mean 'sexual partner'?"
Sherlock makes the kind of face that siblings usually make when they are forced to think about their siblings in sexual situations, and tries to quash the small spark of joy in the pit of his stomach at the answering snort he gets from John.
"I see, then." John leaves the subject alone, and Sherlock tries to figure out why he feels so appreciative of the gesture. After no simple answer presents itself he contents himself with thinking again about how odd John is, and how fervently glad he is that he won't have a lab partner who tries to drip hydrochloric acid on him like the previous one. To be fair, it was agreed that Jim Moriarty had a wide variety of problems (that were currently being 'fixed' by the most expensive psychotherapists money could buy, according to Sherlock's sources), and as such was not a reliable measure of the average science student.
The boys spend a minute or so in relative quiet before they reach the science wing and are greeted by the dulcet tones of the chemistry professor.
"For the love of God and all his angels, never assume any clear liquid is water!" Echoes out of the room, and John and Sherlock's giggling continues until they enter their own lab.
The professor looks up from her desk, and only sighs when she sees Sherlock's head wound. "Everyone has a fetal pig for a preliminary dissection so I'll know your approximate skill. Go to your bench and get started."
"Will do," John half-salutes her in response, and Sherlock can't help but assess her attractiveness and John's reaction to her- he now knows that John doesn't see age as much of a deterrent, and he would like to prevent his new lab partner from being expelled for inappropriate relations with a staff member.
They walk to their bench and pull on the ridiculous aprons –decorated with a cartoon drawing of a pig- and latex gloves. Sherlock would never admit it, but he finds the smooth insides of the gloves and the way they snap when let go pleasing. He's sure John would have something to say about how he likes latex a bit too much (just because Sherlock hasn't had sex doesn't mean he doesn't know the necessary materials).
John picks up one of the scalpels and looks down at the small, wrinkled form on its metal tray.
"Poor bastard, isn't it," he says conversationally as he makes a clean incision along its abdomen.
"I understand many students are in the habit of giving their dissections names," a slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "What do you say to christening ours Anderson?"
John hastily turns a laugh into a long, drawn out cough as he tries not to look at the rat-faced namesake of their pig- who happened to sit in front of the pair, and as such, was completely within earshot of Sherlock's comment.
"Fine!" The scrawny boy snaps, "then mine is named Holmes!"
"Oh," Sherlock drawls, "you'd like to cut me open? How tremendously ambitious of you. It certainly qualifies you for the psychopath title you insist on conferring upon me." Sherlock winks at John as he references their earlier conversation in the hallway, and the answering grin makes his stomach do acrobatics he's not sure he wants to analyze.
Anderson turns around, face wrinkling into an even more unattractive visage. "Now you listen here, freak-"
He never finishes that sentence- not because John flings a fetal pig at him, even though the blonde is sorely tempted- but because he forgets one of the critical rules of lab work in a classroom setting.
Never leave your partner alone with the specimen.
Before Anderson realizes what is happening, his partner removes the intestines and begins swinging them in a circle. As can be expected from tissue that isn't fully developed, the intestines tear and Sherlock and John are treated to both a revelation and a show.
The revelation being that fetal pigs can still produce fecal matter, and the show being that the fecal matter splatters all over Anderson.
John tries to hold back a guffaw as the rat-faced boy slowly reaches up to his face, obviously hoping that what landed suspiciously close to his eye isn't the substance that enables Sherlock's next pithy comment.
"I suppose in this case, shitface is an appropriate term to use."
At that, John loses it. His resulting full throated laugh draws the attention of the rest of the class, who –after a few moments of stunned silence- join in.
The professor looks up from her desk and nearly growls with annoyance. "Every year, I swear. Keep the organs on the bench, children! If I see any tissue airborne, all of you will be scrubbing the hallways with toothbrushes for a month." She ushers Anderson over to the wall of sinks and glares at those laughing on the way.
John and Sherlock share a glance, neither knowing that the other is thinking the same thing.
"This is going to be the best year yet."
Barely a week later sees Sherlock and John sprawled across from each other on the floor of Sherlock's dorm room, with John attempting to do his physics while Sherlock pesters him with various questions- most sexual in nature- in an effort to, as he put it, "expand my database of knowledge pertaining to most aspects of human behavior for the purpose of improving the spectrum and accuracy of my deductions" (To which John had answered "If your parents never gave you the birds and the bees talk, don't expect me to." The resulting miniature war culminated in John creating a crossbow from pencils, rubber bands, and tape he had at hand, and Sherlock's surrender).
"From your experience, is it generally males who give 'hickeys' to their receiving partners? Or do women give them to men? Is it seen as a sign of weakness or approved of? Is 'give' the right verb?" Sherlock takes notes in a black notebook –John's joke about a little black book had gone straight over his head- as John lets out an exasperated huff of air.
"If you want me to answer that one then you need to help me with my problem set," he bargains, knowing that Sherlock would probably do it anyways. John had learned that his eccentric friend considered physics a 'passable relief from boredom,' ranked below partially illegal experiments and annoying his brother but above Shakespeare.
"Obviously," Sherlock's scoff makes John want to grab him by his mass of curly hair and snog the patronizing expression right off his face- but their earlier agreement holds him back. John files the idea to the back of his mind, and mentally promises his exceedingly interested crotch that it only has to wait a year. John resigns himself to answering Sherlock's question and staying sexually frustrated for a few more hours, at least. Such is life.
"Generally it's boys who leave hickeys –I don't think they qualify as 'love bites' until you're in uni- on their girlfriends. I think it's a territory claiming sort of thing, a really obvious way to say that she's your girl. If it's a gay couple, then either is fair game, though if there's one who usually tops, then it'll probably be him leaving them. Blokes rarely get hickeys from their girls- and if they do, their friends would normally congratulate him on 'landing a kinky one.' And yes, variants of 'giving,' 'leaving,' and 'making' all work in context of hickeys." John suppresses a smile at the diligent note taking of his lab partner/ new friend/ probably future sexual conquest (although, surprisingly enough, John is considering taking it further than that for the first time in a very long while).
"Mhmm," Sherlock hums as he finishes his last bullet point- John sees a 'to review later' scribbled in the margin- and why is it not odd at all that Sherlock reviews notes on hickeys instead of studying school topics like any other person at the school would? "Give me those physics 'problems'."
John scoots the book closer to Sherlock and moves so he's laying on his stomach next to the other boy. He drifts off a tad while listening to Sherlock's admittedly attractive voice explain the concept, only to come back to reality because of a sharp flick to the side of his head.
"John! If I'm to do you the favour of digressing upon this, then it is common courtesy for you to pay attention! I'd rather you not daydream about your impending rendezvous with the blonde girl from your European history class." Sherlock's scowl is perhaps a bit more so than necessary, and John is inwardly gratified at the thought.
"What do you know of common courtesy," he retorts, but makes sure to pay closer attention to what Sherlock is saying. The twinge of guilt he feels from the reminder that he is going to leave Sherlock for a satisfying meeting with Margaret-no-really-call-me-Maggie (Sherlock never bothers learning their names) is something John quickly pushes down so it doesn't distract him further.
Before John realizes it, it's time for him to leave Sherlock's room and meet with Maggie. He feels a little disappointed at the prospect, and can't help but think that Sherlock's distaste for anyone of less than genius intellect –excepting John- is rubbing off on him.
"Thanks for the help," John ruffles Sherlock's hair as he stands up, a now familiar gesture. "I'd be failing if it weren't for you."
John hopes he's not imagining the slight blush on Sherlock's face at the contact.
"You wouldn't- you're marginally more intelligent than the general populace," Sherlock pretends to be disinterested, while John knows that he's just been given a compliment of high worth, and that Sherlock really is somewhat put out about his leaving.
"She's not more interesting than you, you know." John feels the need to reassure Sherlock.
"I made no such insinuation," Sherlock's head tips further towards the floor, another sign that he's becoming uncomfortable- or, as much as is possible for him.
"It's that she's a bird, and I do need to get off sometimes. I'm a healthy teenage boy. It's nice to see my efforts go somewhere besides down the shower drain." John cracks a grin at the now obvious flush covering the back of Sherlock's neck. "See you tomorrow, Sherlock!"
John leaves Sherlock's room with the image of his flustered friend in his mind, and in a much better mood than he'd entered.
First of all, I don't know why my head canon is that both of the baker street boys have conversations with their genitals (I think Sherlock's would be more along the lines of "Why is this happening to me/you are not allowed to divert blood flow from my brain/oh god am I getting fat like Mycroft is that why my pants feel tight?" and John's would be more good-natured deal making; "Don't morph into a visible erection before we leave the Yard and I will try my damndest to get laid for the next month". Secondly, the pig incident actually happened to me- my partner decided, for whatever reason, that an intestinal helicopter would be a great thing to create. Thankfully I moved out of the way in time, so he was the one who got covered in pig poop. The crossbow was MacGuyvered by a different friend, who is probably the reason this fic will have porn. Eventually. Thirdly, I have no idea about hickeys. I'm just making all this up off the top of my head! I have no sexual experience other than what I've gathered from the internet. Also, I'm so sorry about not having this out sooner- finals and life just got/ are getting in the way. I know that's a pretty cliché excuse, but it really is true. To make up for it, here's a longer chapter :)