"You know what?" the driver says, his finger raised. "Come to think of it, there was somethin' else quite peculiar about them."
DI Lestrade readies his pen. "Yes?"
A dramatic pause. "They had to be invited in."
Greg Lestrade is tired. He wants to go home and lie in bed and never get up for the next five years. "Uh-huh?" Greg slowly nods, angling his notepad and pretending to write. "Had to be invited in, you said?"
"Yes, yes." The driver rubs his chin. "Why didn't they just walk in?"
"Because that would be rude?"
"Nah." Greg follows the driver's hand as he waves away the apparently fathomless possibility. "It was peculiar." He goes back to rubbing his chin. Greg clicks his pen.
Sally walks into the room. Her face is lively, but her eyes are dead. "More coffee?"
"Yes."
John tries again when Mike emerges, dressed for class. "Did you hear what I just fucking said?"
"I tried not to," Mike says, moving around John's knees from where he sits on the counter, perfectly posed as The Thinker. "You weren't making much sense, mate. Have you gone to bed at all? You don't look well."
John's eyes feel dry, like he can scrub sandpaper across them without making a difference. He doesn't tell Mike this. He doesn't tell Mike he's been up all night trying to listen to the voices on the other side of the wall either. He also doesn't tell Mike he was unsuccessful in doing so. Instead, he shakes his head and tells Mike, "I'm fine. So, did you hear what I fucking said?"
Mike pours milk into his bowl of cereal. "Go to bed, John."
"I have class."
In no time at all, John's face burrows in his pillow and spreads his snores throughout the flat. Mike leaves with a promise to the sleeping beauty Molly will take good notes during lecture.
It snows more. John dreams of bathtubs filled with yellow paint. He dips his fingers inside, stirring the paint with only the tips, as if his fingers are paintbrushes. The paint is cold, chilling him to the bone. His mind is blank, no consequences, as he plunges his arm into the tub, up to his elbow. The tub appears to have no end, until John touches something.
He doesn't flinch. He presses down harder, the thing underneath him giving way with a loud crunching noise and a bubble popping. John watches as two of his fingers float up to the surface. It's so cold, he hardly noticed. He presses down even harder. More crunching noises, and then his palm is flat against the end of the tub.
Waiting, nothing happens. John lifts his arm from the yellow paint to find he's removed a heart from the tub. Perhaps there was a body underneath the paint and in the cold. Nothing else bobs to the top of the makeshift bathfill.
John squeezes the heart. It pumps in his hand. The doorknob rattles. It rattles, rattles, rattles.
John wakes with a start, sweat lining his skin with an icy film. His head hurts, and his arm feels as if it might crack open and break before his eyes.
Mike is standing there, beside his bed. Molly is here, too. They both have the same wide-eyed stare above the tight wrappings of their scarves around their mouths. Mike is the one who woke John, who shook and shook and shook him.
"What?" John asks.
Molly glances at Mike. Mike speaks. "You were mumbling in your sleep. I wanted to make sure you were all right."
John pulls the blanket over his head. "I'm fine." He would like to know what exactly he had been mumbling, but if he asks Mike, there's no guarantee a reply will be given. Mike will say it's nothing to worry about, maybe even discard it with the rest of the bullshit John says lately.
"I'm fine," John repeats.
"He's gone," Molly mumbles.
John pokes out his head. Molly is the only one still in the room. Her hands are hidden in the frilly ends of her scarf. She's picking at her nails.
"I wasn't specifically talking to Mike."
"Oh." Molly doesn't meet his eye. "I left my notebook on your desk," she says. "You can text me when you're finished or if you have a question, and I'll pop right back up here." She nods.
John settles against the pillow. The outside light reflects off the snow on the ground, casting onto the wall he shares with the two strange neighbors. It doesn't look safe to touch.
"Mycroft," Molly says, breaking the silence that fell between them. "You were mumbling, 'what's his name, what's his name'. It's Mycroft—the man next door. I ran into him this morning, clumsy me, and knocked papers out of his hand. Renter's papers, I think. It had 'Mycroft' on them." Molly pulls a loose thread from her scarf and wraps it around her index finger. "I didn't catch the last name, because I was… well, I was apologizing and trying not to cry."
"Mycroft." The name isn't welcome in John's mouth. "Did you happen to find out his brother's name?"
Molly's face screws up. She blinks. "Brother…?"
"The… person living with him." John is afraid he might have disclosed something he shouldn't have.
Molly thinks for a moment. "Oh, you mean the one who wears the dresses? No, I don't know their name." Molly looks flustered.
John pushes away the blanket and sits on the edge of his bed. "Thank you, Molly. I'll text you later."
Mike is in his room. All signs point to him being able to hear John pull the shower curtain back and forth too many times. Mike is in his room.
The curtain swooshes on the hooks—back and forth, back and forth. Every time John reveals the tub, he expects to see the yellow paint and his fingers as bath toys. It's sad to think he doesn't feel safe taking a shower in his flat.
John debates not taking one today, but then his skin crawls with old sweat and fears, and his hands flip the dials with a mind he has little control over.
When he steps in, the water is warm. It isn't for long. John is cold. He's cold, he's cold, he's cold.
Someone is at the door.
John wraps himself in a pair of sweats and three pairs of socks. His hair is damp and dripping chilled down the length of his neck. "Mike?" he calls.
"Got it." Mike is on his way to answer it.
John's stomach churns. He can't tell if it's hungry. He pulls on another pair of socks.
"Okay, uh, I'll get him. Wait here," John hears Mike say from the sitting room. He knocks on John's door. "It's for you."
Although Mike finds it ridiculous how many layers John has on, he keeps it to himself. He does, however, express something almost smug and intuitive.
"What the fuck are you staring at?" John heads to the door.
He expects to see Molly, who he texted about fifteen minutes ago. If not Molly, then he would think it'd be Mary, the blonde who somehow manages to catch John when he's climbing up the stairs to tell him his shoes are untied.
Except it isn't Molly or Mary. It's his new neighbor. They're wearing a wavy black skirt today, paired with a camisole with lace at the top. The tank makes it very known they do not have breasts. It hangs loosely over their torso, dipping low enough to see collarbone yet no cleavage. Either way, John thinks the outfit looks quite lovely on them.
"What is it?" John asks.
They aren't wearing shoes, but that's predictable. They don't smell bad either. John can't hear their stomach growl. "May I talk to you?" they ask, hands behind their back and blue, blue eyes on John. "Will you come with me?"
Clearly they don't want this conversation to be heard by someone like Mike. Mike, who typically isn't nosy, is hovering in the room behind John. John gives Mike a look over his shoulder. "Why can't you say it here?"
"I don't want to." And then, they're disappearing down the hall. John hurries to throw on a coat and his shoes before running after them.
John is taken outside. They're already on a picnic table, legs swinging. As he's dropping next to them, John wonders if they're cold. He goes to ask, but they are turning toward John and holding out the Rubik's Cube. The arm is steady, and in their hand, a completed Rubik's Cube rests.
It's been a day—one day, a single day, one whole day. John is amazed. "That's fantastic. How did you manage it?"
His answer is a shrug. John takes the cube and starts inspecting each side, sure he would find some of the stickers raised. It's genuine, though. Nothing was peeled and pressed back into place. "Fantastic," John repeats.
"D'you know you do that out loud?"
John's cheeks flush pink. "Sorry. I'll shut up."
"No, it's… fine."
Awkward moment aside, John goes on with his compliments. "How did you do it? I've never been able to do it."
"You said to do the corner bits first."
John tilts his head. "I did, didn't I?" He huffs out an air of amusement, shaking his head right after. "How old are you? I haven't been able to solve this. I think I'm older than you." He blinks. "Not, like, age determines intelligence or anything like that. Ignore me. Actually, don't. I still want to know how old you are."
They fidget on the tabletop. Their toes bury in some snow on the bench in front of them. "Nineteen," they finally say.
"Must have just turned nineteen, then," John comments, unable to notice how uncomfortable they are now.
"I've been nineteen for a while."
"Oh, I don't believe that." John stares at the Rubik's Cube some more. He wants to break the harmony of the colors, but he's scared he might not be able to return it to this pleasant stasis. "Is that why you wanted me out here? To give me back this? You could have given me this inside, where it's warm."
Their eyes widen, and they force a shiver. "I apologize."
Despite how little clothing they have on, they don't seem bothered by the cold. John finds this strange. His other questions come to mind. "What's your name?" He stares at them as he asks this, wanting to seem friendly, nice, interested. He hasn't been much of that recently. "I'm John."
They don't reply right away. It mimics the night before, when John began to grow worried they wouldn't take the Rubik's Cube from him.
"Sherlock."
John is satisfied with this, and he doesn't know why. He goes back to the cube in his hands. "Sherlock." It sounds a lot better than the brother's name. He says this next. "And your brother is Mycroft?"
"Yes. Unfortunately." Sherlock laughs, then abruptly stops, seems to remember something. "Where did you hear that?"
John narrows his eyes. "Just… around… My friend."
Sherlock is quiet for some time. Snow begins to fall again. It lands in the French braid plaits their hair is styled in. "John," they say, followed by a pause. They might want to test how common a name John sounds in their foreign accent, although they continue after this. "Would you still talk to me if I wasn't a girl?"
John runs his fingers along the yellow side of the cube. It matches the color of the paint in the bathtub. "Yes."
Sherlock considers this. "Would you still talk to me if I wasn't a boy?"
John looks at Sherlock. "Yes. It's all fine."
Sherlock's eyes are wet. They blink, slow, careful. "Thank you." The voice that hits John's ears is soft, something John never heard before.
The wind begins to pick up. When John shivers, Sherlock does, too. It's more natural. "I have probably been rude, and I know assumptions are bad, so care to enlighten me…?" John plays with the cube, twisting the same section back and forth, back and forth. "What are you?" It might come out insensitive, but Sherlock isn't annoyed.
"Nothing," they respond immediately. "I am nothing."
"Nothing," John murmurs. He likes the sound of that. "Also… what are… your pronouns…?" John stumbles over this inquiry. His cheeks threaten to turn pink for the second time tonight.
"He," Sherlock whispers. "I know it doesn't make sense." Sherlock means the way he presents himself. John shakes his head and hands back over the Rubik's Cube. Sherlock takes it with no hesitation. "What is this for? You wanted it back tomorrow. Today is tomorrow. Why are you giving it back to me?"
"Birthday present," John decides. He shrugs. "A late one… or something, what have you."
Sherlock drops his hand in his lap. He is greatly affected by the small gift. His eyes are wet again, but he doesn't blink the tears away this time. "Thank you."
In this light, in the cold, in the snow, at this very moment, John wants to kiss Sherlock's cheek. He doesn't. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
Sherlock rises, fingers curled around the toy. "Yes. Tomorrow." He jumps from the table and vanishes inside the building.