Sebastian is just not getting the hint. Surely one would think, after the numerous ignored calls, that it would have deterred him. Maybe even woke him up to the fact that I would absolutely not join him in whatever little game he was bound to be playing. But, no, the smug bastard was still here, banging on my door at two in the bloody morning, having clearly just returned from the foul little pub around the corner.
A local university hotspot that had some event happening, perhaps a game of some sorts – England vs. Someone who was "going down like Amy from Arts", according to a group of men this morning – but frankly, I couldn't care less. Sebastian Wilkes has had at least enough alcohol to feel that seeking me out is a good idea and apparently… oh god, Mycroft had joked about university being a time to "learn new experiences outside of education", and if Sebastian thinks that he's going to get his smarmy hands on me, I shudder to think about it.
The man already has overactive sweat glands, and so he's saturated after walking up a flight of stairs. I would rather endure one of those lectures about "popular culture" than find out what he would look like after an even more strenuous activity. He's pleading and now he's a whining smarmy bastard
"Fuck off, Wilkes – go find someone else to fool round with." The banging stops. I have to press my ear to the door to hear his heavy breathing, to confirm that he's still lingering. Something feels wrong. He hasn't given up – he's not smart enough for that – but he's gone quiet. Almost like he's thinking, but I doubt that he could pull that off.
Oh, laughter. Starting out as little huffs and growing into full blown mirth. This seems more likely, to be honest: coming over just to laugh.
Nothing new. Should be used to it by now. Still can't completely control my actions though, but my body's just going through a natural reaction: a tensing of the shoulders and a clenched jaw. It will pass soon – always does. It's nothing new.
"I'll send it, Holmes." It's just a breathless whisper around fading giggles, "I'll send it to everyone, and the entire campus will know. Could even make its way to your brother, so open the door." Body tenses again. A numb feeling working its way through my veins, as adrenaline pumps its way into my body. Oh, so this is fear then – I should run tests. I want to look at the influx of hormones into the system, and how it can change certain responses, but I can't right now.
Fuck. This will not end well.
He barges in, covered in sweat and stinking of cheap alcohol, as soon as the door opens, with a smirk firmly in place
"Two things I need from you, Holmes."
He's sitting in my chair and lights up a bloody cigarette, in the middle of my room. That's my chair, and he knows that I quit. Draped across it like he owns the thing. Maybe I can steal it and blow the smoke in his face. I liked that chair – stole it from Mycroft's stuck up over compensating flat – but now I'm going to burn it.
"One, and this is rather important so lock up in that head of yours. Never think I want to touch you – I have standards, you know," he says before bursting into laughter again at that, arm flailing about. I can feel my cheeks burn, and I can see my hands shaking. Stupid body and its responses. Wilkes takes a long puff on his cigarette and attempts to blow the smoke towards my face. The aim was off by a good 7 centimetres, most likely because alcohol dims the senses. After an uneasy moment, he lets out a huff.
"Aw, come off it, Holmes. You're a genius – surely you know no one wants to touch..." he flings an arm out, shaking up and down, "...all that. You're just freak all over, and everyone knows it. I know it. You know it!" He slumps back in my chair and smiles. I have left over petrol somewhere. The chair should go up nicely, even with the idiot currently occupying it.
"And what, pray tell, is the second, Wilkes? Or are you just going to continue insulting me in my own flat?" Just finish your pathetic insults and be gone is what goes unsaid.
"You're going to help me get something I want...well, someone." More laughter and puffing on his cigarette – clearly being intoxicated makes one think themselves a comedian – as he fishes out his phone, "Or Mr Sherlock Holmes, your little secret will go viral!" He flashes an old photo on the screen, smirk in place. I could reach out and grab it; alcohol has dulled his reflexes. I could get it and smash the little black thing, and he knows it, but he's still smirking, so there are possible copies stashed elsewhere.
"What poor unfortunate am I getting?" He moves to stand close enough to reach out and touch me if he really wanted to. But he won't. We both know that no one can stand to touch the freak, even with alcohol helping them, apparently. He takes one last drag of the cigarette and drops it on my floor. The rest of the year shall not be pleasant for him.
"You're going to get me John."
John. He wants a John: a boring name, probably a boring man to go with it, with a boring face and a boring personality. They would be perfect for each other.
Clearly, if Sebastian Wilkes has his eyes on him, this "John" will most likely be about as exciting as a crime scene with every piece evidence all neatly arranged and pointing to the perpetrator, in other words dull, surely that should be obvious. Alas, sadly no, because Sebastian is now going on about stormy oceans, arms and, now talking about how this "John" could probably bench press some ridiculous amount. What has that got to do with anything? A person's intellect is far more important than the amount they can lift.
"I help you get your John, and you get rid of everything – every last little thing."
He looks surprised at that, "You can't negotiate anything Holmes," Wilkes argues. I step in closer and get a whiff of cheap beer – really, this man has no taste – before he backs up.
Oh yes, can't be too close to the freak; I might be contagious, "Not a negotiation. If I don't help you, then it gets released, and if I do help then, what? You keep it to extort another day? Not likely," I remark, grinning. It's obvious that the other man is trying to think, with trying being heavily emphasised. It almost looks painful.
"Deal. You do your party trick that everyone hates so much, about him. Just get him mad, and you're free." It's not a trick. Amazing how one stupid man can create such anger, even in a person with infinitely higher intelligence.
"Why, so you can step in as the knight in cashmere armour?"
His face goes a blotchy red colour, as he storms towards my coat and chucks it at my head. "Like you know anything, freak!" He yells, and then he's out the door, loud footfalls echoing in the hallway. He's clearly expecting me to follow. Well, I have little choice but to, really.
"Don't people shake hands, when they make a deal?" His answering grunt of anger just makes a happy tingle spread all over.
It takes me a full second, after entering the pub, for me to remember why I hate social interaction.
Pubs are dirty, smoky, alcohol-soaked hellholes, filled with women in tight clothing and men who think that they are more than they are. I hate it all. Sebastian's gone straight to the loo, to "fix himself up a bit". I almost feel bad about that; if he had told me earlier, I could have lent him a paper bag. Shame would have done him wonders. A few eyes flick over to me, and murmurs start. Nothing new – stay calm.
Some rugby lad, most likely a forward going by the size and vacant expression, pushes past me, sending beer all over the sleeve of my coat, as he goes on, without so much as an apology or even a backwards glance. Bastards. Every single moronic person here is a complete and utter –
"You all right, mate?" Something made a relatively high-pitched squeak – female, most likely, going by the octave. But going by the rather short man's face, surprisingly nice and warm, the noise actually came from myself, much to my own surprise and confusion. But I am temporarily blindsided by the fact that my mind perceived the man in front of me's face as warm. I do not know how that that adjective could be used in this context, but it suits him. Clearly, the unsavoury surroundings have hindered my judgement.
"You surprised me," I admit.
The man smiles – oh god, he smiles, and somehow it reminds me of fireworks. My shoulders tense, but it feels like a different tension than when Sebastian was talking to me
"I can do that, when I want to," he replies, winking. I possibly have a case of food poisoning, going by the swirling feeling in my gut.
Then the man's patting me on my arm with a tea towel, although it's more my saturated sleeve that he's touching than anything. Doesn't he know not to touch the freak, lest he be turned into one? Clearly he isn't in the "loop" – a small part of me feels sorry for him
"Shouldn't stain. Oh well, look on the bright side: the night can't get much worse," the mysterious man says. And then there's a hand on my shoulder and another smile. All white teeth, blue eyes and fireworks, which is not at all possible. I may have lost the ability to speak and think coherently. I should be able to glance at him and know things about him that no one else knows, but I cannot.
How the hell did that happen?
The smiley, short man wanders off. Good. He can take the funny feeling and the fireworks with him, and he's at the pub so he's probably a bastard as well, and then Sebastian's at my side. Again. The night has gotten worse. Was it too much to ask that he be stabbed in the loo? Really now.
"Okay, freak, John's still here. That's him, so go work your annoying magic," he explains, nodding to a man behind the bar. The pub is busy but not crowded, and I can clearly see his "John" in question. A short man with a smile as bright as fireworks.
Oh fuck.
That was John. How can they be John? Sebastian wants him, so obviously he's going to be dim-witted, boorish and just as bad, if not worse than everyone else, and he works at this alcohol-ridden death-trap. so he's going to be bad. The bastard smiles again. Fireworks.
Fuck.
This may not end well. Sebastian's talking again, while pressing a hand full of folded toilet paper to his ear, blood slowly seeping into the thin tissue and staining it bright red. Surely even he isn't that stupid? I mean, he's bad but, yes, but even I am dumbfounded by his fatuousness. Bloody hell
"You pierced your ear?" At least he has the grace to look sheepish "You pierced your ear in the men's loo. You thought to yourself, 'I'll get a sharp metal object and pierce my ear in a pub bathroom'. Really?" His face goes blotchy again, as he shoves the toilet paper into a discarded beer glass. It wasn't even a nice earring.
"Shut up and listen to the plan..." I block him out.
His ear will get infected: first swelling, then filling with puss and becoming even more painful. Perfect.
Must remember to flick it after this ordeal is over.
He's still talking. Must remember to flick it twice.
A mousy brown-haired girl – doing something in Biology, in same year, and goes by the name of Molly if I've overheard correctly – stops to collect glasses and wrinkles her nose at the bloody paper. She shoots Sebastian a disapproving glare, before she walks off back towards the bar, and he's still talking!
"That's it, shut up and trust me – I know how to piss people off," I interrupt, standing up. The swirl the coat to whip him, as I walk past, was purely accidental.
Okay, the plan: rattle off insulting deductions about John, Sebastian will step in defending his honour, and I can go home. Easily done. No one's actually at the bar, besides John, who's cleaning glasses behind it. My lips tingle in a way that reminds me of Mycroft, the git, forcing me to try puffer fish. John's staring at me; I've been standing silently and don't know for how long. I must be coming down with something serious.
He's cleaning a glass with some tea towel, maybe even the same one he used on me, but that shouldn't be relevant, and nor would it be hygienic.
"Yes?" John asks. There is a small smile on his face, although not so many fireworks this time, and his eyebrows go up towards his hairline "Can I get you anything?" The tea towel over is over a shoulder now, and I must agree with Sebastian, shocking as it is, that he does have nicely muscled arms.
"Your smile is like fireworks."
Fuck! That was not in any way what I intended to say. Not at all. My stomach swirls, and food poisoning is looking more and more likely. John just smiles brighter and brighter. "Because it just lights up a dark room, I bet," he answers, he's leaning forward. Why is he leaning forward? Have to continue with Sebastian's plan.
"You're rather short." Fuck.
John's smile doesn't waver, but it feels different somehow – tighter, with more of an edge to it.
"And you're rather dickish," He then throws the bloody beer-soaked tea towel on my head! Maybe he is a bastard, after all, and just has a nice smile to fool people and to lure them in. Is "dickish" even a proper word? Going by his glare, it appears that I may have said that out loud. Well, Sebastian did say to piss him off. Seems to be working.
For his short legs, it's surprising how fast he can get to the other end of the bar "I'm not that short – you're just a bloody mutated giraffe!" Ah may have said that out loud, as well. "Yeah, you did."
Fuck.
It takes me roughly half the amount of steps John took to get me to the other end of the bar. "Look, that was not what I wanted to say. Just hear me out?" Amazing how the part between his eyebrows gets a wrinkle, when he frowns. This is completely irrelevant. Concentrate, Holmes!
"You had a bad home life," I continue. He turns away to serve a group of girls, who are barely legal and wearing skirts at least a size too small with an inaccurately coloured animal print. Each one of them orders something sugary and brightly-coloured, and John seems determined to ignore me. Well, that I will in no way stand for!
I push past the girls, and dear god, is that what passes for perfume these days?
"You smell like a baby prostitute," I point out. I've heard that insult being thrown around campus, and it does seem fitting. John has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing, as he retreats back to the other end as the girls hiss. I almost made him laugh, and why that would make me feel giddy, I don't know.
"Wait, barkeep!" I exclaim. Well, now that I think about it, maybe my flailing arms do make me look rather giraffe-like.
"Barkeep? Posh and dickish," John comments, smiling. Good, his smile is back, but it's a different one again – so far he has four different smiles. "Why did you say that?" he continues, "Not about her smelling like a baby prostitute – she kinda does, to be honest, and pink leopard print was overused just a tad, but not that I go round sniffing prostitutes, mind you. About my home life: what makes you think that it was bad?"
Okay, finally I can deduce him, as agreed with Sebastian and leave debt-free. I look closer, and his eyes are a truly wonderful stormy colour, but anyway:
"You tense up, when someone appears from your blind spot, so you don't like people sneaking up on you. You smile at everyone you serve, but it gets dimmer with repeat customers, like you disapprove of them consuming large amounts of alcohol, so someone close to you has a drinking problem – if I had to guess, I would say family.
"You're fit, so regularly exercise, but the way you move says something else, possibly basic training in the military; you're using that as a way into a degree. But not any degree. It's something relevant to the military, for them to be helping out, so either Law, Engineering or Medicine, but going by your reactions just now, I would say medicine, and you're working here for a little extra money before your study load increases again."
John just stared, his face blank, "Got any more?"
"Your jumper was handmade, most likely by your mother, but she lost a couple of stitches while making it – a possible lapse of concentration as a fight in the house went on, and probably between you and your father. Quite possibly about your sexuality too, going by the looks you have been giving both men and women tonight." There is more, but that should be enough to ease the way for Sebastian.
But something is different. He's not looking mad, and he even has a little half smile, which is number five, and he looks more surprised than anything.
"That was brilliant!" John exclaims, "Really just...just wow, mate."
...Oh. My entire body has seemingly increased in temperature exponentially, in a confusing but not unwelcome manner. It's certainly different, with the heat mainly pooling in my cheeks.
"That's new." Even my voice sounds strange. What has happened to me?
John leans forward, mouth open. It's rather nice his mouth, and I wonder if it is as soft to touch as it looks? But before he can get a word out, Sebastian is there. Right the plan. Curious how I suddenly feel nauseous.
"The freak bothering you, mate?" Sebastian questions. There is suddenly a flash of anger in John's eyes.
Interesting.
He takes a deep breath, before turning to Sebastian, "Look, mate...holy heaven and high waters, what happened to your ear?" Suddenly, he slips into doctor mode, and even I, without sufficient medical knowledge, know that purple is the incorrect colour for an earlobe. Oh good, infection was swift.
John drags Sebastian away into the back room, hopefully to just check on his ear, and strangely things go numb. My fingers, my face – even sound seems dimmer somehow. Molly walks past with a small smile and into the back as well.
That seems to be that.
I, Sherlock Holmes, should go home. Back to my little flat. Go back to burn the chair and go to bed. I should go home and forget this entire night ever happened; it is the best solution.
Then why can't I move from sitting, knees under chin, on a dirty toilet in a pub? Why does it hurt to even breathe?
Stupid Sebastian Wilkes and his stupid plan. Stupid John with his smiles and stupid eyes, stupid walk, stupid jumper and, and his stupid everything! How was it even possible for someone to have fireworks in their smile? Funny, I have never felt this angry or put out. I am not upset, though. I refuse to be upset. Even if John had called me brilliant, he would have turned out like the rest, in the end.
The noise from the pub had lulled. Time to sneak away and hopefully miss out on Sebastian's victory. Just have to make it past the people, past Molly behind the bar, ignoring the way she seems to call out, possibly to make fun of me – hell, everyone jump on the "Holmes is a freak" bandwagon – and then out the door to freedom.
John's there with Sebastian, getting in a taxi. It makes me feel sick. Maybe it's time to join the age-old tradition of vomiting in front of some dank watering hole?
Tomorrow, I can get my reward from Sebastian and delete this absolutely annoying night from my head. All I have to do is close my eyes, so that I don't have to watch John leave with him. I need to keep my priorities straight.
How can I watch fireworks now?
"Sherlock?"
Is John lingering to laugh? Point out that he got me? Got the freak's hopes up? That he almost made me…wait a minute.
"I never told you my name," I muttered, and I swear if John's smiles are fireworks, then his laughter is sunshine on a cold day warming me all over.
"Molly overheard Wilkes' master plan to get into my pants, and honestly he's been trying for a week now. Plus he's blind drunk. That thing you did, you know, it was brilliant. I'm John, by the way, just in case you were wondering."
How did I ever think he could be boring?
My gut swirls, fingers tingle and warmth begins to spread all over. Must be something serious. Maybe I should seek medical advice. John is going to be a doctor: would that be good enough? I would not oppose his hands checking my temperature… Oh.
"I was blackmailed by Sebastian Wilkes to come here and insult you, but I seem to have become infatuated with you." And that...that wasn't supposed to be said out loud. This is all John's fault; he seems to be the cause of all my problems.
"You didn't mean to say that, did you?"
We blink at each other. The heat returns to my cheeks, and then we're laughing together. Someone is laughing with me. Even going so far as to lay a hand on my shoulder and laughing like we're two normal people.
"Here. It's Wilkes' phone. Get rid of whatever he's got on you. He seems like the type of person to keep passwords on his phone, but I'm sure you're smart enough to work it out," John says out of nowhere, handing over the device. Oh, and I am. Ah sweet justice, but one thing is bothering me.
"Why would you care?" I ask, trying to keep my voice calm. I don't even know why I care, but I need to know that he's not like everyone else. Please.
"You really want to know?" His face is so open.
"Of course. I wouldn't have asked otherwise." Please don't let me down.
"I don't care what you did – past is the past – it's all fine, and well…"
"Well what?" It feels as though everything rests on John's next words.
"I've had a crush on you since I heard you argue with that librarian about why the library needs a better section on bees," he explains, letting out a chuckle. I can tell that I'm doing what Mycroft likes to call pouting. I remember that argument; it was in the librarian's office and,
"That was a month ago."
John smiles, fireworks and all. Oh, well then.
"Dinner?"
A/N I can't believe I forgot to thank gbheart for the work they put into editing this for me :)