Chapter Text
"You can't be serious."
Ignoring the blatant irritation in Mrs. Hudson's voice, Sherlock's eyes stay closed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, splayed out on the bare, yellowing mattress he is now supposed to call his bed. The color is hateful, as is the paint on the walls of the entire room. The longer he stares, the more the barriers seem to cave in, so Sherlock opts to keep his lids shut tight. Although, he'd prefer to focus on the revolting colors of his new surroundings. The panic of what is supposed to take place today is threatening to swallow him whole as it is.
The room is the least of his problems.
"Hm," he replies noncommittally, feigning indifference. On any other day, he'd be happy to assist in moving his items into his new home. He would be happy to complain and annoy and snap and sulk like he does best because moving is tedious and Sherlock doesn't do tedious. He would be sure to let Mrs. Hudson know just how much he didn't do tedious. If he were helping.
But he's not helping.
He's not even sulking like he's certain his nanny-turned-housekeeper thinks he is.
Truthfully, he's lying here desperately willing the world to come to an end. If a black hole would simply swallow the earth right this minute, that would be ideal. Or just London. More improbable, probably impossible, but one can always hope. Hope for impossible. Beg for impossible.
"Sherlock Holmes, you get your behind off that bed this instant and come help me with your things," Mrs. Hudson barks from the doorway. Sherlock can practically feel the all-too-familiar glare of his longtime friend and for all intents and purposes, mother. He refuses to open his eyes, refuses to retake-in the small dorm he's supposed to call home from now on.
Actually, small isn't the right word. Small is being generous. No, this room is tiny. Itty bitty. Could be considered a torture chamber by expecting two fully-grown males to live within its quarters comfortably for an entire year.
Sherlock swallows hard around the lump of sheer panic in his throat at the sudden reminder.
Two males.
Living here.
Another boy will be arriving soon. Another boy will be showing up at any moment, bags in hand, prepared to become Sherlock Holmes new university roommate. He'll bring all of his belongings and idiotic brain and obnoxious hobbies along with him and settle right into Sherlock's personal space.
It's beyond terrifying.
In all his years on earth, Sherlock has never lived closer than ten meters from another person. He shares a home with an older brother, a housekeeper and an entire wait staff, but none of them lived in his room.
He inwardly cringes, his body going rigid with the reminder, stomach squirming unpleasantly. This may be the worst thing to ever happen to him. Attending university had been a bad plan to begin with. The intelligent side of his brain told him it was necessary. The other side, the side ruled by emotions that Sherlock had thus far in life been successful at ignoring, had warned him it wouldn't go well. Warned him he would regret it. Warned him that all people were the same dull, boring, obnoxious specimens that he so loathed to interact with. Secondary school had been a nightmare. Why would uni be any different?
Cursing his decision to the high heavens, Sherlock cracks an eye open as Mrs. Hudson huffs and storms off down the corridor, back to the car where the remainder of Sherlock's belongings are still waiting to be moved indoors. He takes the moment alone to compose himself, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, crushing his fingertips together in a woeful attempt to calm down.
He needs to get a handle on himself.
He needs to get a handle on the situation.
He rolls to the side and eyes the bed sitting only two meters at most across the room from his own. He clenches his jaw, ignoring the telling roll of anxiety coursing through his insides at who could possibly be the boy to occupy that bed for the remainder of the school year.
It will be someone unbearable, of that Sherlock is certain. He'll be stupid at the best of times and uninteresting and love things like football and rugby and majoring in something simple and tedious like sociology or communications. He'll be cocky, because aren't all eighteen-year-old boys believing themselves to be God's gift to earth? He'll be obnoxious about how incredible he finds himself, and how everyone thinks so.
But above all else, he'll be a prick. He'll be a quick-tempered, fist-clenching, snarling bastard with no tolerance for any truths, any facts Sherlock is bound to deduce about him.
It's what Sherlock does, to the dismay of almost all that cross his path. He sees things about people, notices the smallest of scratches or twitches or loose strings that tell a much bigger story. The Science of Deduction he so proudly calls it. It is a science, after all. And Sherlock is a scientist.
He has yet to meet someone who finds what he can do as fascinating and interesting as he does. Quite the opposite, in fact. A variation of piss off has been thrown out on multiple occasions when Sherlock rattles off what tells a person has from a cursory glance.
Well, the nicer ones say piss off. The other ones? Especially the boys his age? Well, they are all the same anyway and their reactions come as close to identical as can be. A fist to the face is a group favorite. A good tongue-lashing suffices for others. A personal tear down of Sherlock's looks, brain and social life or lack there of is also always on hand as well.
Case in point, eighteen-year-old blokes have never been friends to Sherlock. They've been mean and dumb and utterly cruel, and Sherlock is under no illusions that he won't be lucky enough to have a nice roommate. A good roommate. A roommate who will leave him alone and stay out of his way.
He's never been lucky in his life. The chances of him getting lucky now are unrealistic. Unlikely. Simply impossible. And he knows it.
The empty bed across from his glares back at him, taunting him with the unknown. Asking him to think in circles, to drive himself up the wall with questions and possibilities and-
"Scowling at the bed isn't going to help you, dear," Mrs. Hudson grumbles as she makes her way back into the room, a small box in hand and a bag slung over her shoulder. Sherlock glowers at his housekeeper who he still refuses to see as the mother figure she's become in the years following his parent's death. He hops off the bed, crossing his arms and pointedly turning his back to the offending mattress. "I wasn't scowling."
"Yes you were. I don't know what you're so worried about. He might be cute, you know."
It takes a fifth of a second for that to sink in.
And then the blood fills Sherlock's cheeks rapidly, heating his face immediately at the implications of those words. "Mrs. Hudson!" he cries indignantly, mortified that she would even think… that she might know-
"Would you calm down?" She laughs, tucking his shirts into the drawers beside his bed, neatly folded the way she's done his entire life. "It's alright if you like-"
"Mrs. Hudson-"
"I'm just saying dear, boys can like other boys, you know Mrs. Turner's got married ones and I think-"
"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock hollers, drowning out her final words, face flaming hotter than the sun, brow scowling with fury mixed with complete humiliation.
He should be used to this by now, this intrusive little chat she seems so hell bent on having constantly. This has become their new norm.
Ever since the woman had come across some telling magazines Sherlock kept under his bed, she'd taken every opportunity to let him know how supportive she was in the most embarrassing and humiliating ways he could possibly manage. It wasn't quite as helpful as she seemed to think it was. It's mortifying. Completely and utterly humiliating.
Besides, it isn't like anything has... happened. It isn't like Sherlock has conducted some grand experiment to come to this conclusion. It just sort of... is. He just is. It didn't much affect him either way, finding both genders and people in general rather uninteresting and idiotic and a complete waste of time. But the idea of touching a boy isn't wholly unappealing. It isn't the worst thing he's ever imagined.
But Sherlock has yet to meet a boy he'd like to lay hands on. Or more importantly one that he'd allow to lay hands on him.
"You should be more comfortable with yourself, dear," Mrs. Hudson continues as though Sherlock's face isn't currently melting off. "It's alright to be g-"
A harsh throat clear cuts off the final word and Sherlock freezes where he stands, the unpleasant shiver of dread racing up his spine.
"Um… hello?" An unsure male voice accompanied by a soft knock comes from the doorway and Sherlock's blood runs cold.
Of course his new roommate would show up at this exact moment.
It's Sherlock, after all. Lucky is not in the cards for him. Unlucky is.
He curses himself and this newcomer for showing up at random and giving Sherlock no time to be in position. To be facing the door at least. Now he's got the upper hand and Sherlock is caught on his heels.
He can't bring himself to turn around.
Mrs. Hudson, for her part, doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the new boy overhearing their squabbling as she looks up and smiles, eyes widening ever so slightly.
Sherlock knows that look. He narrows his in warning but she's no longer concerning herself with Sherlock's sexuality as she steps around him already beaming. Sherlock still doesn't turn, instead pretending to busy himself with refolding his shirts. He'd like to delay the inevitable meeting of the roommate for as long as humanly possible.
He's going to hate him.
He's certain of it.
It makes something slither sickly in his stomach.
"Why, hello there!" Mrs. Hudson's flowery words fill the room as she hurries over to the new arrival. "You must be Sherlock's new flatmate!"
"We are not in a flat," Sherlock bites out without his brain warning him. "We are in a small rat hole at best."
The snort that follows the comment has Sherlock faltering, turning his head just slightly toward the sound. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have laughed at that comment. Which is further proven when she gasps.
"Sherlock," she admonishes as though that's the worst thing she's ever heard him say which, by all means, it is not.
He tries not to smirk and fails. Sweet, clever Mrs. Hudson. Attempting to make the new bloke believe Sherlock is anything other than the obnoxious genius that he is.
"To be fair, he's right," the unfamiliar voice says with a small chuckle. "This place is definitely not a flat."
A cool wave of unsolicited hope rolls its way through Sherlock's body, tugging the corners of his lips upward and smoothing out the scowl along the creases of his face. It gives Sherlock pause.
This boy... this new, unknown boy just agreed with him.
With Sherlock.
He frowns down at the shirt in his hand.
It's... confusing. Unprecedented. Bloody wonderful.
Which promptly rights Sherlock's almost-euphoric mind back into its usual foul mood as he realizes how stupid he's being. He rolls his eyes internally and sets about pulling on his armor, nasty words on the tip of his tongue to put this bloke in his rightful place. Sherlock has no time for niceties. No time for games. No time for hope.
And with that last thought, he turns, venom playing around the edges of his mouth, prepped and ready to spit, because Sherlock has never met another person his age he actually likes. He's hardly tolerant and the last thing he needs is to believe there is someone tolerable out there. Let alone that lives with him. People are nothing but a letdown. Besides, Sherlock prefers to be alone. Alone is what he has.
Alone protects him.
Brow arched in condescension, body stiff and ready for battle, Sherlock is wholly prepared as he squares his shoulders and whirls around.
And finds how wholly unprepared he truly is.
The regret of turning around and laying eyes on what he is currently laying eyes on is immediate and breathtaking.
The boy in the doorway is breathtaking.
Round cobalt eyes shimmer back at him, profoundly deep and all-consuming, sitting just below dirty blonde fringe that falls across the boy's forehead just so, the edges winging out just enough, giving off the impression of clean cut with a dash of disorder and a hint of chaos. The blond is short but not in an unfortunate way. In a nice, compact, sturdy way. In a way that is doing it for Sherlock. Those pretty eyes are crinkled around one side of the boy's round, cherub-like face, the corner of his mouth upturned into what Sherlock assumes is a good-natured smirk. Sherlock can't tell. He has zero experience with anything like this. Like someone actually being nice to him. He catches the tail end of a darkened gaze trailing up his frame and suddenly he feels hot all over.
Very hot.
Boiling hot.
Oh no.
No, this is worse than having an idiot for a roommate.
This is...
Sherlock's mouth is promptly filling with saliva and he can't bring himself to speak without the very real threat of drool escaping his lips. He bites at the insides of his cheeks, pleading with his libido to get it together.
This can't be happening.
So many years, years of careful research, careful control comes crashing down around him and Sherlock is panicking. He can't... he's never been attracted to someone. He can't be attracted to someone. He's tried, really he has, buying ridiculous magazines and searching high and low all over the interweb. He's done his best. And his body decides to react now? To someone he's about to be living with?
No.
Absolutely not.
He will not be attracted to his bloody roommate.
Mrs. Hudson clears her throat pointedly and Sherlock's forehead breaks out in an embarrassed sweat.
And just like that, he's making a decision.
Right this minute, absolutely not. This is not on. This can't be on.
Back up. Get away. Throw up those barriers and forget this ever happened.
Cold.
Unattached.
It's what he does best.
He cannot be nice to this beautiful boy. He can't. That would only be asking for trouble. That would be going down a very dangerous path. That would be stupid and sentimental. Two things Sherlock is very much not.
He ignores the way his housekeeper's face falls as he slips his cool mask back on and arches a condescending eyebrow, eyes racing down the boy's fit frame to gain any and all ammo he possible can before pulling the trigger. "Hm," he replies, "I suppose you would know what a flat doesn't look like, seeing as you've recently moved from a house that's falling apart at the seams."
His roommate's smirk drops right off his face, his jaw following it down. "What?"
The disappointment is immediate and almost painful. He misses the sexy smug lip-quirk already. It was far more attractive and nicer than this gaping fish look the boy is now sporting.
Nothing for it now.
Sherlock sniffs arrogantly, glancing away from those mesmerizing eyes and looks around the room as though in deep consideration. He needs to get out of here. Right now. "Well, I believe all of my belongings are moved in," he says coolly, "so if you don't mind, I'll be heading out to the library."
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson tries again to scold but Sherlock is already grabbing his phone off the desk and hurrying past. "You are being very rude, young man."
He doesn't respond. He can't respond.
He can't breathe.
Not while this boy... this blond, sweet-faced boy... whose name Sherlock doesn't even know, is looking at him.
For godsake. He's lusting after a boy he doesn't even know the name of.
Pathetic.
He slips by the two staring in shock and out into the main hallway, taking a deep, calming breath as he hurries away from the space he's supposed to call home.
He can't live with this person. He can't be anywhere near this person. It's impossible. It's unbearable.
He needs his sanctuary. He needs to get to the library and away. Away from the face that has, for the first time in his life, put sex on Sherlock Holmes' brain. The face that is probably sitting just in front of a head full of air. A probably stupid brute with a crew of big, mean friends and a vicious temper. Sherlock has known plenty of those before, he's certain he will know plenty in the future and though he's never been attracted to a single one of them, it changes nothing. Dickheads can be gorgeous; it doesn't make them any less of a dickhead.
"Uh- it's John by the way," a now familiar voice calls after him. "John Watson."
Simple name.
Simple and so fitting and utterly beautiful just like the boy himself.
And Sherlock wants to tear his hair out in sheer frustration. "Irrelevant!" he hollers back without turning. He can't look at that blond head again. Not now. Not ever, if he can help it.
"My name is irrelevant," he can hear John mutter to himself in almost comical sarcastic disbelief, the headshake so obvious Sherlock swears he can feel it. "Good to know."
Sherlock has no response, bursting through the door to the outside world and inhaling as deeply as possible, hoping desperately to clear all his thoughts. One thought in particular that seems to be plastered to a billboard across his brain, flashing bright, blinking and buzzing, demanding to be seen. One thought. Two words.
John Watson.
John Watson.
John Watson.