Mike acts like he knows something when John comes back inside. Snow is melting in John's hair, shivers taking over his body, and the first words that leave his mouth are "You gotta problem?"
And Mike presses his lips together in a poor attempt at concealing a smile. "No."
John goes to bed.
He doesn't dream. He isn't disturbed.
Morning classes are cancelled. John sits in the hallway with Mike, Molly, and Mary again. Mary's friend tags along with them today. He's creepy, with dark eyes and an unpleasant smile, but he bought them coffee and donuts, so no one declines his company.
John almost wishes they had, but then he takes a bite from a powdered donut, and he forgets about the prolonged stares from the dark eyes.
"So," Mary starts, finishing a sip from her coffee, "have any new theories for us, John?"
John wants to go deaf. He wants to erase Mary's existence.
He wants to gorge out her friend's eyeballs.
"Um, no," John says, shaking his head and wiping powder from the corner of his mouth. "None at all. I'm… on empty. What about you, Mary? Since you… brought it up?"
She tilts her head. "Oh, I have several." She doesn't say anything else.
Her friend pipes up. "What're we talking about?"
"The neighbors," Mike says, pointing a thumb at the door at the end of the hall. "Two people. We don't know what to think of them." Mike doesn't look at John. John shoves his face with more donut.
"One's a bloke. Dresses in suits all the time—you might get on with him, Jim." Mary winks. Jim's face doesn't change expressions. She continues, "And the other one is this mangy little girl. Well, not really little. She's tall, wears dirty clothing all the time."
Molly cuts in before John can. "Not a girl," she says.
Mary turns to her. "A boy, then?"
"Not a boy," John says. Molly looks at him. Mike, Mary, and Jim do, too. John doesn't like being the center of attention.
"You told me it was a boy." Mike furrows his brow. "Said the bloke used 'brother'."
"Yes, I was wrong. Please don't use 'it'."
"'It' is bad," Jim says. John glances at him, but Jim isn't staring at him for once.
"I'm sorry. It came out."
"It's fine." John's fingers dig into the side of his coffee cup. "'He'… Use 'he'. Can we talk about something else?" Suddenly he doesn't feel like talking about much of anything right now.
Jim snorts. "Why? I find this very fascinating. Who are they? What do they do? You said they lived over there?" Jim points, lowering his hand when Molly nods in response. Jim's thumbnail is bruised, like he smashed it in a door the day prior. He bends the thumb as if it still hurts. "Do you dare me to knock on the door? Say hellooo to the new neighbors?"
Everybody, even Mary, begins to shake their heads. "Please don't, Jim," Molly begs, gathering the ends of her scarf in her hands—a defense mechanism.
"Why?" Jim stands, dusts himself off. He's wearing too fancy of clothing to be sitting on floors all morning. "Are they murderers? Are they going to hurt me?" He steps around stretched-out legs, ignoring the pull of weak fingers on his trouser cuffs and the pleading for him to come back.
At this moment in time, classical music is playing somewhere on the second floor. It's loud, going up the stairs until it rests on the fourth-floor landing. As if by accident, Jim seems to pace his steps in time with Rossini. It should be funny, but nobody is laughing. Their eyes are wide, their breath caught in their throats. Molly looks as if she might burst into tears.
Jim knocks on the door—two short raps.
No waiting. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, opens the door.
No waiting. Mycroft's face contorts into something repulsive, something outrageous. John can't tell how Jim is taking this; John only sees the back of his head. "Hello!" Jim says. His head goes side to side; he's swaying, rocking on his heels. It's almost sickening. "May I come in?"
Mycroft somehow manages to look even more disgusted. One of his eyelids even twitches. "No," he hisses, "go away," and he shuts the door in Jim's face. That, at least, he and John have in common.
Jim spins on his heel, hands raised in the sign of surrender. "Is your hearts racing, or is that just mine?"
No one says a thing.
Someone knocks on the door.
John opens it. He won't admit he runs to the door to prevent Mike from getting to it. Despite this, Mike isn't suspicious. He's working on an essay, bent over his laptop, blind to John shuffling toward the door with round eyes and a hopeful grin on his face.
It's dark, nighttime. Sherlock is wearing the same black skirt as yesterday. He's pulled on a blue hooded sweatshirt for this occasion, but neglects to wear shoes again. "Hi, John," he says.
"We're not going outside, are we?" John teases. He wouldn't mind sitting outside, now that he thinks about it. Though, his preference is to stay inside. It's cold, and snow has fallen for hours now.
Sherlock shakes his head. "No."
They sit in the stairwell, Sherlock somehow balancing himself on the railing, and John staying with the security of a stable ground beneath his arse. It's better than the picnic table. Sherlock still swings his legs, the hem of the skirt flowing around his thighs. John focuses his eyes on other things. After nearly ten minutes of silence, Sherlock is the one to start a conversation. "A man knocked on our door this morning," he says. John closes his eyes. "He asked to come in. Mycroft didn't let him in. Do you know him?"
"Not, like… personally, no. He's Mary's friend. Frankly, I think he's bloody frightening." John rubs his hands, his knuckles. "Have you seen his eyes? He just… stares at you."
"People stare." Sherlock curls his toes. John wonders if Sherlock is used to the stares. "Some people have eyes you cannot forget."
Like you, John wants to say, but that's something from a damn romance novel. He isn't about to set himself up for rejection. Instead, he asks about Mycroft. "Does he always look like that? Or does he know Jim from somewhere?"
Sherlock turns his head, a slow tilt. "How did he look?" he whispers, as if Mycroft's appearance is a secret. John tries to recreate how Mycroft appeared at the door. He ends up making a fool of himself and laughing. Sherlock studies him, blank expression never wavering. Slowly, he turns his head back around. "No," he whispers, fingers tightening on the banister, "he always looks like that."
The way Sherlock says that doesn't sit right with John. He doesn't pry. "So." Sherlock sways lightly. John's heart should be leaping in his chest, his legs urging him to stand and pull Sherlock from danger; however, Sherlock is the definition of elegant. He's careful, delicate, like dust. John clears his throat. "So," he tries again, "where are you from? You have a, a, an accent. I mean, everybody has an accent, but you… you… It's definitely foreign." A mess.
Sherlock smiles.
"I am originally from Sussex." His smile grows. "Surprised? Yes, I'm from England. My family moved to London when I was young. I call London my home. I'm sure you understand."
John doubts Sherlock. Why would someone lie where they're from, though? "Your brother doesn't talk like you."
"Of course not. He's a prick."
John snorts. "Funny. But, no, seriously, you two don't… Sherlock."
Sherlock wraps an arm around his stomach. As he laughs, he leans back, and not once is he scared of tipping off the banister and falling down four flights of stairs. John wonders if it would be quicker to fall down the stairs than the elevator shaft. He doesn't want to find out.
When Sherlock recovers, he wipes his eyes. Apparently, John is hilarious. "I know, I know, I know." Sherlock inhales, calms himself down. "Sweden," he admits, hints of laughter still present. "We moved to Sweden when… well, when I was young."
"First, you move to London when you were young, and now you're saying you moved to Sweden when you were young." John props his elbow on a knee. "Which is it?"
"We moved a lot," Sherlock quickly replies, side-eyeing John, as if to make him feel guilty for asking such things. John does feel guilty. He isn't one to poke holes in Sherlock's story. "We moved once more," Sherlock says, continuing to eye John, daring him to comment, "back to London. Here I am." Sherlock waves his arm, flourishing, proud.
John rolls his eyes. "Here you are."
More silence.
"Where in Sweden?" asks John.
"Blackeberg," answers Sherlock. "In Stockholm."
John knows about Stockholm. "Was it cold?"
Sherlock gets off the banister, sinking into the spot beside John. "Always. You know the snow we have here? It's worse over there. Schools didn't close. We walked in the snow. I ice skated a lot."
"I would have liked to see that." Would Sherlock have worn dresses while he was ice skating? It must have been cold. Sherlock never gets goose bumps. His skin is pale, adapted to the chill. John furrows his brow. "How old were you when you moved to Blackeberg?"
Sherlock stands. He goes up the stairs. "I don't want to talk about this."
John doesn't follow. If he wants to, he needs to run to catch Sherlock. As John is going down the hallway, he sees the door at the end of the hall close. Should he go down there? Should he ask to see Sherlock? Mycroft might answer. John won't be intimidated if it comes to that.
John knocks. Mycroft answers. Sherlock is nowhere behind him. Newspaper still decorates the walls and windows, acting as curtains to block out the sun. Every door John can see is closed. He frowns.
Mycroft chuckles. "Good to see you, too, John." And he shuts the door.
Mike is at the table, typing away on his laptop. "Almost done with this paper," he says, as John walks in. "Want to go out with Molly and the others later?"
"Sure," John says, not thinking to ask who "the others" would be. He goes inside his room and sits on his bed.
Mycroft knows his name.
John won't be intimidated. He won't, he won't, he won't. It's simple. He heard, eavesdropped. Sherlock told him. Sherlock… Sherlock talks about him? Sherlock talks about him.
Scuffles in the sitting room, the sliding of a chair, the closing of a laptop, Mike finishes. "John?"
John throws on appropriate clothes, laces up his boots, and shoves a wool cap over his head. "Mike."
"The others" are Mary and Jim. They started the day together, and they're going to end it together, as well.
They're drinking. Jim doesn't partake. "I'm a lightweight. You wouldn't like me that much."
Jim stares, only stares. John tosses drinks down his throat to dull Jim's intense eyes. For a second, John thinks it might have been Jim who crept in his room to stare at him while he slept, but the eyes were blue and much different from the ones currently sending warning signals throughout his body. John ignores it, has to. He has to.
"There's been another murder!" a man at the bar yells, his hand rising into the air to gesture to the telly. Glasses are knocked over and shattered. No one cares.
"Another murder, another murder, another murder," the patrons begin to chant, fists pounding against tabletops.
Molly is interested in the details. She tries to listen, fails. Mike pulls up the article on his phone. "Under the ice," he says. "They found the body under the ice. Some kids found it."
"Under the ice!" someone overhears and begins to shout. "Oh, the poor children!"
"Icicles for the children!"
Mary orders them another round. "Thank fuck," John mumbles.
They get back to the flats before curfew. Mary hugs John for far longer than he expects to be hugged. She's warm, her coat soft. John welcomes it. He even welcomes the kiss she presses to his lips. He gets lipstick on his face. He doesn't welcome that.
Jim is staring at him again. He disappears into Mary's flat, after her.
"Goodnight," Molly says once they reach her flat, hiccupping.
Mike unlocks the door. John is unsteady on his feet, not trusting his hands either. "Wait here." He trusts his tongue.
"John."
"Fuck off, Mike." With his fingers running along the wall as a form of guide, John walks, one foot in front of the other, toward the unit at the end of the hall. He knocks once, and then twice, about to knock a third time when the door opens. Sherlock is there, looking… not particularly lovely. He's different from their meeting earlier in the evening. Dark circles are under his eyes, his cheeks hollow, and his plaits knotted and frizzy. John swallows. "Sherlock."
Pale eyes crawl down his face, to the lipstick on his mouth. Sherlock's stomach growls. It sounds like an animal. He closes the door without a word uttered.
Silence. Not for the first time that day, and certainly not the last, John feels guilt attaching itself to his esophagus. It won't leave, no matter how hard he scrubs and scrubs.
John is more sober now. He wanders back to his flat. Mike stands in the middle of the sitting room. He hasn't drunk much. "What are you doing?" he asks. "What is he to you?"
"I don't know." John rubs his knuckles into his eyes. "I don't know."
John doesn't see Sherlock for the rest of the week. He sees Mycroft. Mycroft doesn't see him. He walks with his chin raised, his nose in the air. His suits are nice, and he doesn't concern himself with anybody below him.
At night, John curls in his bed and faces the wall. He listens. He breathes. Mycroft talks of the bathtub, of their next meal. Sherlock needs to eat. The sounds his stomach screamed were worrying. John debates on going next door and fixing him a meal. Mike says this is a bad idea.
"You're a terrible cook."
"I'm decent."
John sees the boy named James on Friday night. He lets James take him over the edge of the sofa. John needs it. It's awful, but he needs it.
On Saturday, John and Mike stay in and watch bad movies.
Someone knocks on the door.
John jumps to answer it before he can catch himself. Mike watches him, keeps his lips zipped shut.
John sees no sense in hiding his excitement. He opens the door.
His face falls, his shoulders drop, everything comes crashing down. "Janine…?" He takes a step back.
Janine, with pretty purple nails and perfect hair and shiny lips, has tears in her eyes. She looks more panicked than anyone John has ever seen. "Oh, John, Mike, I don't know what to do."
Mike joins John by his side. He is unnerved by Janine's visit, too. "What's wrong?"
Janine's hands shake. "There's something wrong with Mary."
Mike and John step into their shoes and follow Janine.
Down the hallway, the doorknob rattles.