could_be_dangerous | our stuck together pieces, a load of near-misses

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our stuck together pieces, a load of near-misses – aw shucks, you got me

Doomed. They'd said it, the both of them, agreed it, and when Sherlock slinks off back to his own room in the Ravenclaw dormitories he's feeling it, for the first time feeling the weight of something like fate tying itself to his bones. He's always avoided it, struggled stubbornly against his own restrictions even if he knows them inevitable. Isolation had once been one of those things, loneliness, but today slackened the ties of that anchor around his ankles. It might just slip free. Might just.

There might be those who would consider a sole friendship, a sole association, insufficient to stave off loneliness. People who need to bury themselves in others, in affection and esteem, as much of it as possible. Sherlock doesn't agree, though, he finds as he slips wearily under the blankets, a cursorily-written and bitingly critical essay resting on his nightstand, the ink glistening in the moonlight coming in the dormitory window as it dries. Today wasn't lonely at all. He's on his own when sleep twines about him like a cat, but even then it's not so bad.

After all, there's always tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the reason he's come to bed so late, likely to the chagrin of his roommates. Studying. Up late studying, charms and enchantments, incantations, grammars; searching for options, potentials, ways to make promises realities.

They'll get there. They're young and they're magnificent and they'll be even better together. So Sherlock genuinely believes, and it starts in the morning.

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Sherlock can't help but smile at John's appropriation of the credit. It's true; he's not bothered. Modesty is pointless when it's dishonest, but... well. Generally other people don't feel that way. He suspects he might be a terrible influence, but really can't bring himself to care. Bluntness pleases him much more than evasion. Much more interesting to know what John really thinks than what he thinks he's supposed to think, which is probably mostly the same thing as everybody else.

“Looks as though you have,” he agrees drily once John's cup has gone sailing off after his own, leaving a trail of water behind it. Sherlock watches it spread out over the flooring with one eyebrow raised, watches it seep into cracks and indentations, dribble along paths of least resistance. Well, he meant it, John does have a knack for it, at least given current, admittedly limited evidence. Timing's more amusing this way though, with the implication of skepticism.

“Learn a bit of Latin and you won't even need me anymore,” he adds. A quick summoning charm has the cups sailing back to him and he plucks them neatly out of the air before moving to reset them.

“You'll be brilliant.”

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

John would never even have gotten an idea like this if it wasn't for Sherlock, and he doubts it would be quite this fun if he wasn't doing it with Sherlock. So, even if he might be fine on his own if he learned some Latin, he has no interest to be, not really.

Which is... new, actually. Because generally he always insists on managing things on his own, but with Sherlock it's suddenly... not important anymore. And he rather likes it.

“Buggered if I know,” comes Sherlock's easy response, though his thoughts are far less mild. Far less. The implications are...

Good. Better than good. And he can't smile, not right now, can't let it go all crooked and delighted and more-than-fond, because he is, oh yes, more than. Can't help it. Can't for a moment, hates himself a bit for it, but how was he meant to know? How was he meant to anticipate this, cut loose before getting too deep?

He suspects too deep was the train car, was the start, like all of this is inevitable. Which is... nonsense, utter nonsense, but maybe...

No. No, and that's quite alright. Thinking that they got here in spite of everything is so much better.

“It's... well, it's still pretty fun to soak a classroom on one's own, I have to admit, but this is... better.” Incomparable.

John laughs, only for a second, but it's a clear laughter. Completely uninhibited. "I bet it is," he agrees, isn't sure anyone would think it wasn't. "But not the same."

And he's never tried soaking a classroom alone, but he's absolutely certain that this really is better. So, no complaints here. He raises his wand again, gives it another go. The cup doesn't fly off to the wall this time, but it doesn't exactly do what he wants either and empties itself completely.

The spin was rather violent.

Sherlock snorts softly, helplessly, at the overenthusiastic spin of the cup, at the droplets of water flying everywhere.

“Well, if I should ever need to water a lawn, I know who to turn to,” he says, tone mild and amused.

“Might be quite a good spell for that, if nothing else.” Or for pranking their other classmates, Sherlock supposes, were they inclined to do so. Pumpkin juice at supper... actually, the thought is rather amusing. Not enough to be worth doing; Sherlock is many things, but he's not a prankster. It involves more investment in the thoughts and experiences and opinions of others than he's yet been able to muster.

Still. Still, jokes aside, this is progress, and he's clearly pleased, flashing a small smile at John before he gives his own attempt. Decent. Better than nothing. Better than before. Still quite a mess.

Then neither of them aren't much for pranking.

John snorts and raises a hand, and his eyebrows. "Right, cheers."

He wonders how he expected this to be, but it's definitely rather difficult. Fickle. He's kind of enjoying it.

"Mmm. My pleasure." Sherlock gives a wave of his own wand, toys with the intonation of the words, with the emphasis. Not quite, not quite, too wobbly; his sprays everywhere too, and he presses his lips thin in amused annoyance as droplets of it splatter his shirt.

"Nevermind, looks as though I can handle the gardening myself. Knew I should've gone with botany. Never be a detective but at least I can maintain some wealthy prat's shrubbery." Dry, so very dry, which means he's enjoying this. Enjoying it enough to be joking, which he hardly ever does in quite this way, though John isn't likely to know that. He seems to bring it out in Sherlock with unusual ease.

"Sounds like a dream job."

Intonation, though, that's an idea. John licks his lips and frowns down at his cup as he sets it back up, ponders. What next...

Somehow, it manages to end up up-side down this time.

"...okay."

“Mm, tops, absolutely brilliant, what I've always wanted to do,” Sherlock responds, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stares at the upside-down cup and the large puddle they've made in the centre of the floor.

“And you can do the mopping.” He pads out to the cups, splashing lightly with every step, and resets them.

“We'll live in a shack on the grounds and spend the rest of our lives waiting on some nonce and saying awful things about him behind his back. Talent like this can't be wasted, John. If I've learned anything today, it's that we're made for it.”

"For the love of..." John says as he sends Sherlock the most incredulous look, a mere moment before every hope for composure he may have had crumbles.

It's the shack that breaks him, really, and makes it impossible for him to try to dryly spin along on the joke. The shack is just it and he ends up laughing so hard that he has to slump against the wall to keep from actually dropping to the floor. What the hell?

Sherlock does try to keep a straight face. He does. He tries to be earnest, to play at confusion, as though he doesn't see what's so funny about any of it, obviously they're made for it -- and really, growing old and irritable in a shack together, that bit, that doesn't sound so bad... though why it doesn't sound so bad is something he'd rather not get into at the moment and so the words don't come.

Instead, he breaks into that smile, the real smile and not the Real People smile, the crooked one. Can't help it, really can't, and it's better than trying to explain that he meant it, parts of it. That that, at least, has to be true, has to happen, because he doesn't know what he'll do with himself otherwise. Even he knows that's nonsense. Utter nonsense. Only it doesn't feel nonsensical.

Regardless, it's good, this. Good enough for him to lean his shoulder against the wall and watch John laugh, just laugh, which is brilliant, isn't it? Sherlock doesn't make people laugh, not as a rule. He thinks he's hilarious sometimes, true, it's just that most people don't seem to agree. This is new. This is excellent.

"You alright? Never going to see that shack if you carry on like this, you know. You do need to breathe sometimes. Just think what you'll be missing if you don't."

And Sherlock isn't helping in any way. John is trying to breathe, but Sherlock doesn't help one bit. What he'll be missing, is it? All of this, obviously, this Sherlock throwing him into laughing fits and try to keep him in it for however long he can.

It's really not fair because John's stomach is hurting.

"Shut it."

Really, shut it. He won't survive this day if Sherlock doesn't stop talking.

Sherlock sniffs indignantly.

"Rude. Won't express my concern anymore then, fine. I don't care." He tries for offended, really he does, but the low, helpless chuckles dispel the impression more than neatly. The obvious delight on his face clearly doesn't help either, nor the way he bends sideways to match the way John doubles over, all so he can get a better look.

What about laughter could possibly be so fascinating? It isn't a question Sherlock himself can answer, largely as it would mean trying to explain why it matters to him that the muscles of John's face tug at his skin the way they do, why it matters that Sherlock can see his teeth (and they're quite perfect, he'd noticed before but the noticing is different now), or hear the way his vocal folds are drawn tight with the sort of laughter that's impossible to resist, high-pitched, uncontrolled.

He likes that. Uncontrolled. Involuntary. It means it's all quite genuine. It means he's done something really rather good.

Yes, well, John refuses to put up with this load of bull, absolutely refuses, so he gives Sherlock a gentle shove halfway to turning to face the other way. Maybe if he presses his forehead to the wall it'll be easier to stop laughing.

But he's pretty sure he can breathe now, at least. Yes, breathing's definitely getting easier, so. Laughing is calming down. Bit by bit.

"So. What's that shack going to look like, then?"

Sherlock lets John manoeuvre him, laughing all the harder for it. He's really not certain how it's meant to help, really not certain at all, but lets it happen all the same, leaning back against the wall while John collects himself. The question sets him turning again though, leaning his shoulder against the cool stone and huffing in amusement.

“Well, you're there. Hadn't really thought about the rest.” He puts on a thoughtful expression, chewing at his lower lip.

“Dryer than this, I expect. Though maybe not, if we're there. I don't know, what do servants' quarters usually look like?” Sherlock tilts his head sideways, leaning it against the cool stone, eyes fixed on the skin just behind John's ear. Soft, probably. He touches his own, disguising it as an idle bit of scratching, but he's fairly certain it's not at all a good approximation.

“Books, I expect. Fireplace. Fireplaces are nice. Other things. You sort out the rest; I don't care.” Not enough to be able to think of what it should look like, anyway. It was never really meant to be that specific.

"Furnish it however you like. On a budget. Probably not too much money in gardening and cleaning floors."

He turns back around to lean his back against the wall and snorts. Okay, with the laughing done with, he'll join in on the game. Why not?

This is kind of fun, anyway, and the idea of living with Sherlock in the future is... a nice one.

"No, probably not. I think we'd make do with two beds, couch and coffee table. Maybe even a kitchen table if we want some luxury."

Sherlock hums softly, nodding. Is he hovering? Maybe he's hovering. Intruding on space. Now that John's facing him he seems awfully closer, closer than Sherlock had quite noticed before, and he supposes that to an intruder it'd look as though they're up here to do the sort of things people normally seek out empty classrooms to do (which is nonsense, of course; if Sherlock were going to snog John he'd probably do it some place they'd be far less likely to be interrupted). For all his talk about decency he really doesn't care, but someone else might, and that, yes, that would be trouble. Irritating.

Still, he doesn't care to move away.

“Yes to the table. Obviously. Have to have someplace to do experiments.” Experiments on late nights; there would be, have to be, get too bored otherwise. All night, maybe; wouldn't be the first time. The thought of John joining him at sunrise, tousle-headed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, warm and sleepy and fascinating really is unspeakably nice.

“Can't not do experiments. Might miss out on finding an even better way to get things wet, and then where would we be? Inefficient. Bad news.”

"You're going to do experiments on the kitchen table? Pretty sure that's for eating."

Yet John can't exactly say he's surprised. Sherlock would do experiments on the kitchen table, and, well... That would be messy. And probably a bit of a pain, and who would clean it? Because he has a feeling Sherlock doesn't really bother beyond the very necessities.

So.

He folds his arms. "And who'd clean it up?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Coffee table's for eating. Obviously. From the sofa, much more comfortable; isn't as though anyone needs to do much of it anyway, is it? Waste of time."

Time that could be spent experimenting. Which is the point. "We'd clean it up, obviously, when it needed cleaning; isn't as though you can hire a housekeeper for a shack, is it?"

Is it? In truth he doesn't know, but it seems a bit silly. Nice. Be nice not to have to think about it (not that Sherlock often does anyway, as his mother can attest).

Sherlock looks down at John with all the mild, amused annoyance of one who's being interrogated a bit too deeply about what is, in truth, just an idle fantasy. Looks, and tries not to think about how he might, if he leaned forward just a bit more, be able to investigate the scent of John's hair.

"I think it would be more a matter of money than the shack. And maybe I like to eat my dinner at the kitchen table."

An idle fantasy, but one that he's really rather enjoying playing around with just for the sake of it. It won't happen, he's pretty sure of that, but maybe something... similar enough. So why not talk a bit about it? No harm in getting some things sorted out well ahead.

Or something.

"I'll leave you a corner." A concession; not one Sherlock would normally make, but he gathers they're important when one wants to keep people around. He's not terribly good at that. Never has been, but he means to try, this time.

"Has to be near the refrigerator though; easier to store samples." And obviously he'll have to store samples. There'll be room; it isn't as though anyone needs more than milk and a few scattered food items anyway.

Though maybe John would want more. Maybe. He never can tell with other people; they're all different, and this isn't something he can just deduce. There are tendencies, Sherlock can guess how he'd like his tea, but it's not the same thing as evidence and knowing.

"Definitely a corner. You eat, I'll work." Or watch. Or both.

John would say how very considerate that is of Sherlock, if he hadn't mentioned one thing. That one thing that John really has no idea what it is, and there's quite a poignant pause because, uh.

Ah, the joys of coming from different backgrounds.

"Refrigewhat?"

He'll ask about the samples later because. What samples?

Sherlock sighs heavily, though the way his eyes roll up indicates it to be mostly in jest. "Refrigerator. Box you keep your food in to keep it cold so it doesn't go bad. Works by circulation of cold freon which--"

A pause. "Nevermind. Anyway, there are loads of different types, all a little bit different, and that's annoying because now I've got to know them all, haven't I? Still, need one if I'm going to be storing tissue samples or the like."

Which obviously he intends to do. Why wouldn't he? It's practically a necessity, either for his work or to keep him sane, depending.

Good call, Sherlock, to not bother explaining because John was already well on the way to tuning it all out because what. While a part of him is curious, he's very certain it's best not to ask, so he doesn't. It'd probably give him a headache.

"Tissue samples..."

Well.

It definitely sounds like living with Sherlock would be very... fascinating.

"Tissue samples, yes, for experiments." Sherlock says it as though it ought to be obvious -- which in his mind, it really ought.

"Don't know how I'm to be expected to entertain myself without them. Be bored otherwise." Which, judging by his tone, is the absolute worst of all possible outcomes. It is, in truth. Sherlock bored is one step closer to Sherlock lost entirely, or at least one step closer to him doing something really awful.

"Be an awful flatmate when bored; you wouldn't want that. So." So it's nearly generosity, isn't it?

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