I had learned a bit more about John Watson in the following weeks. He was never late to class, he had a jar of blackberry jam in his bedside table reserved for morning toast (they didn't have jam here apparently. I didn't know, breakfast wasn't an option for me), and he talked in his sleep.
These things were inconsequential at best, but I couldn't help but file them away in my brain. The teen had managed to be interesting enough to warrant space in my mind – maybe I had caught Derby's sickness.
I couldn't decide if he was extraordinarily nice or just stupid. He had stuck around with me for two months without breathing a word of moving. And believe me, I have tried. My dangerous experiments seemed to interest him, my periods of silence or fasting didn't faze him, and my scratchings on the violin didn't bother him – they even seemed to soothe him at night for some reason.
John Watson was an enigma. A puzzle. A mystery.
"Did you finish Dimmock's assignment already?"
I didn't glance up from my microscope.
"Because I need some help."
"And you're asking me?" I drawled.
"Yes, Sherlock. Friends help each other out."
"Friends?" I let out. I was feeling unusually talkative today, was it the sugary jam I had stolen earlier?
"I don't have friends." I amended. That was better.
He looked up at me from his homework position (as I deemed it) on his bed.
"Oh, I err. Never mind then," and glared at the sheet in front of him as if it had personally offended him.
Odd I thought, and went back to work.
"Isn't that a bit dangerous?"
It was a few days after our last conversation. I wonder of he had ever gotten that homework done... Irrelevant.
"No," I replied.
He was referring to my re-hashing of an experiment from months ago.
"No, look there," he pointed. "See the puddle of water next to the flower pot? Way too close to that part that sparks every so often."
I looked, he was right.
"No, it's fine."
"Whatever," he said, and turned back to his book.
John and I had become... closer in the last few weeks. By closer, I meant that he would talk to me and sometimes I would respond. He seemed to… care for my well being somehow, urging me to eat every other day and sleep more often. I didn't know why.
He giggled and I looked over my shoulder for a moment to observe him. Something he was reading was funny, drawing him in to his book. He was like this when he read, it was fascinating to watch. His blue eyes would crinkle in a smile, he would lean in closer to the words on the page when things got especially interesting and would almost mourn when something bad happened. Sometimes he would move his mouth with the words he was reading. He tried to explain this book to me, a series apparently, called 'Harry Potter,' but I couldn't pay attention to his words because the way they shaped his mouth was distracting me. He was distracting and it was detrimental to my – my, er work obviously.
I was pulled away from my ponderings by a dull throb in my right hand. I turned and saw that my sleeve was on fire.
My sleeve.
On.
"Fire!" exclaimed John.
Without my permission, my arm decided to start flailing around while John grabbed a blanket from his bed and came towards me.
"Here! Here hold still!"
He threw the blanket over my arm, catching the table as well, and snuffed the flames out.
"Shit, Sherlock! Are you okay? I told you this was dangerous!"
I looked back and fourth between him and the blanket. A sharp sting suddenly struck my hand.
"Ow," I said.
Another sigh. Honestly people...
He carefully took the blanket off of my arm and threw it on top of the desk and the burnt experiment.
"Stay still, I have a First-Aid kit in the closet," he said, walking over to the closet.
My eyes followed him there and back again, attempting to make eye contact.
"Honestly, Sherlock, you need to be more careful! What if the flame had spread?"
"I'm fine," I said, then I glanced down at my arm. Half of my hand was reddish and swelling, along with a portion of my wrist. My shirtsleeve was black and reduced to ash at the edge, ruined.
He took a look at my arm, carefully picking it up and examining it in the light.
"Looks minor to me, but it'll need to be wrapped," he said. He laid the kit on my bed and took out the gauze.
"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"What?" he grabbed an unopened bottle of water from the desk.
"I hate repeating myself."
"Why would I what Sherlock? Get mad that you started a fire in our room?"
"No, I mean why would you put it out?" I asked. "Anyone else would've laughed and tried to video tape it for the internet and the amusement of others. That's what I don't get about you, John Watson. It's almost like you care about a freak like me."
He froze for a second, then moved to my side again, dribbling the cool water on my injury over the floor. I grimaced.
"What would make you think I would do something like that, Sherlock?"
He looked at me, and I realized how very, very close he was to me.
"You wouldn't be the first," I replied.
His wide eyes got even wider, they almost looked... sad.
"I don't believe that," he said, going back to treating my wound.
I barked out a laugh. "Just look on St. Bart's facebook page, under videos or pictures likely."
He shook his head. "Sherlock, that's awful. That's, unethical for starters. Have you reported this?"
"To whom? The uncaring staff or the teachers who run the page? I think not."
He thought for a moment, finishing the wrapping with a piece of tape. His hand rested just above my bandage, warm against my skin.
"Sherlock," he said, searching my eyes "I would never, ever do that to you, understand?"
I believed him.
He leaned closer. I didn't know what to do, his treatment was the most human contact I've had in a while, so I froze. His face passed mine, brushing against my dark curls as his arms wrapped around me.
So this is what a hug felt like.