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 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?

"If it's better to let you store tissue samples than to have you bored, you really ought to be."

Something separate for tissue samples should be possible to make. He would have no problem whatsoever with it if it wasn't in the same place as the food, which really isn't necessary. But he does wonder if Sherlock would really have any regard for that.

"Tissue samples aren't likely to break anything," Sherlock says pointedly. He's been known to, when in a mood. Of course, he's been known to in the process of experimenting, as well, but at least that isn't malicious.

"Or hurt anybody," he adds, on that note. "Myself included."

That he's certainly been known to do. Their first experiment together was certainly indicative of that fact, what with all the blood, but he wasn't bored then. Bored is worse. Bored is when he's got to test the boundaries of things, risk ruining everything just so he can be clever enough and focus enough to fix it again.

"Well, that's something."

John definitely wouldn't want Sherlock to hurt anybody and certainly not himself. Really definitely wouldn't want that. Even if that's not going to stop Sherlock if he thinks it necessary.

Still.

"Mm. Even Mummy's given up. Sort of. For the best." Sherlock falls silent, looking down at John thoughtfully. Still too close, he thinks, probably, but neither of them seem to mind, save for how Sherlock is hyperaware of it all. What distance there is between them seems suffocating, far too little, a little too much; difficult to discern why either should be the case.

"She'd like you," he says thoughtfully. Said it before, but this time there's a point to it.

"You should come stay. Part of Christmas holidays, maybe. I'll show you the refrigerator."

John doesn't really notice the distance at all. He's never been one to mind personal space a great deal, and this is all so comfortable he's definitely just filtering it out. It's nice, so it doesn't matter much.

"I am kind of curious to see what sort of family produced you."

Which means to say that he would be glad to visit, and not only for that reason, although it's definitely a part of it. But there's no reason he wouldn't want to, really. He likes Sherlock, after all.

Sherlock had asked, but the answer still has him staring at John as though the other boy has grown another head. "W-- really?"

But apparently yes. Sherlock frowns.

"You'll be disappointed. Mummy's not a bit like me. Or Mycroft. Mycroft's not a bit like me either; he's an awful prat." Completely atrocious, if Sherlock's solemn delivery is any indication.

"But he goes away if you annoy him enough. He shouldn't be a problem." What is a problem is that Sherlock is rambling now, but he hadn't expected a yes, not at all, and so he carries on, if just so John won't have time to say no, that he was just joking, just a prank, or--

It only occurs to him belatedly that there's one small problem with this: John's got a mum as well. The frown deepens.

"What about your family?"

It's not like John expects Sherlock's family to be exactly like him. Merlin knows what would happen to the world if that was the case. So, if anything, he's almost glad to hear they're not the same, and all he gives Sherlock is an amused smile.

Sherlock seems concerned about the strangest of things sometimes.

"Well, I don't think I'll run off somewhere on Christmas day," he says, even if he's not sure he would really mind at all. "But I can pop by a couple of days before it."

No problem at all. He thinks he'd be glad for it. Maybe get a break from all that pre-Christmas running about and stressing.

Sherlock hums like he's trying to decide whether or not that's acceptable. It is, he supposes, but that doesn't stop him wanting to keep John to himself the entire break. The entire bloody school year, if he had his way. Maybe longer than that. It's hard to say, standing here and now.

"I'll write Mummy, then," he says, as though that's decided it. "She'll want to fuss over the preparations."

At that he pauses, thoughtful. "Will have to remind her not to tell Mycroft. Suppose he'll work it out anyway."

Which is worthy of a scowl. He remembers when Mycroft found out about Victor, and that... well, he'd been right about that, but Sherlock does wonder how much the ridiculous threatening might have done to end that particular acquaintance. Good riddance, but John he means to keep, John is better in every way, and Mycroft won't ruin it, he shan't allow it.

"So he's like that too, then? Like you. I mean, capable of reading things like that."

Sherlock's already hinted at it, but. Might as well ask, John thinks. It wouldn't be surprising, but he does wonder if he'll really be able to take two of them. Must be quite something.

Poor mother.

Mycroft is, if anything, better at it than Sherlock is. Mycroft was born with the benefit of understanding, or at least some good semblance of it. He won out in the balance of brains and madness, by most standards. Not Sherlock's. Mycroft is joyless. Sherlock is mad, Sherlock is tormented, Sherlock grows bored, but he's capable of mental exultation, of joy, capable of perceiving beauty with an acuteness few share.

Mycroft, on the other hand, is cold. Always cold. Even his fondness is tired and mild and icy. So Sherlock will never admit, not ever, that his brother is cleverer than he is. Their areas of relative expertise diverge.

"Mm. Sort of. Brilliant, I suppose, but he's lazy." Prefers to make assumptions which, while good most of the time, are far from perfect. He understands people better, but he still gets them wrong. If not as often as Sherlock does, then at least more severely.

And then there's how he manipulates. Why try to match when one can simply threaten?

"Suppose he can be. He's..." Less mad? More normal? "... different."

"Mm. Would be strange if he was exactly like you."

Very strange, because John can't imagine that someone could be. How could anyone be? Brilliant, incredible Sherlock Holmes. It just wouldn't make sense. Maybe with ordinary people, there could be more than one, even more than two or three. But of Sherlock? No, can't be possible.

Sherlock hums concedingly. "Be even more insufferable than he already is."

He can't imagine another person like him either. Mostly as they'd despise one another, he expects. Not by default, but somewhere along the line the acuteness of the empathy would become unbearable. It's for his own comfort that Sherlock says he wouldn't wish a brain like his on even his worst enemy. He already feels too much, and none of that is right by most people's standards either.

"Normal, I expect. Your sister's not like you either." They've already discussed that, but even if they hadn't, Sherlock would know. "Obviously. Nobody is."

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