Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It didn’t take Sherlock’s level of observation to count that there was one more warm body in the classroom than there should have been. Third hour life drawing was usually filled with a dull mix of arrogant prodigies and bumbling slackers. Today, there was one new exception.

“This is John Watson,” the teacher announced once the start of class bustle had calmed down. “He will be our first model for the human figure unit.”

John nodded and offered a terse hello. Sherlock drank in the sight of him, always up for a new puzzle. Short with a practical, athletic hair cut. Established tan lines this early in spring definitely pointed to sports. Where had he heard that name before?

“Nice run at the game last night, John!” one of the boys called from the back row.

“Ta, what would they do without me?” John flashed a smile instantly dropped Sherlock’s mental efficiency by twenty-five percent.

Recognition by other students meant a varsity match. What sporting event happened last night? Of course. Rugby.

“Shush, no fun for you, Mr. Watson,” the teacher scolded him half-heartedly. “This is your detention, remember.”

“Woe is me,” John agreed. A few of the students giggled.

The art room tables were arranged in a square around a central platform that was really just another table with a cloth draped over it. The teacher instructed John to take off his outer layers (“You want me shirtless?” “Whatever you’re comfortable with, John.”) and pose on the platform. Instead of some sort of ridiculous magazine pose, John had started with a simple cross-legged sit. It gave Sherlock a good view of his back and shoulders, which were indeed bare.

“You’ll have the hour to draw at least three detailed sketches of our model,” the teacher began. “John will change poses every twenty minutes, so make sure you get all the lines that you need to finish the drawing down before he does. Don’t worry about shading, the name of the game is light contour lines. Any questions? No? Get to work!”

Sherlock had already filled a page with John’s basic form. He knew he should ignore the details in the interest of time, but there were so many aspects of John he wanted to document. The curve of his shoulder blades and the sinews of his neck were begging for Sherlock to give them justice on the paper. He worked his way down to the lower back and cursed the interruption of John’s trousers on the smooth lines of his skin. He had the sudden and surprisingly strong inclination to draw John without the clothing regardless of reality. He allowed himself a moment to imagine John’s arse and promptly dropped his pencil with a loud clatter.

Minute noises had a way of carrying in a room filled with nothing but the scratching of graphite on school-budget paper. Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath didn’t help matters. John turned his head toward the sound, just enough to make eye contact and send Sherlock a subtle grin. Mentally efficiency sustained another serious blow.

Sherlock quickly busied himself with retrieving his pencil. When he deemed it acceptable to return his gaze to John, the model had resumed to his original position. Sherlock thought he was safe until John stretched his arms above his head, his skin moving easily under the drawing light. Homeostasis was suddenly much too hot.

That was it. If Sherlock was going to get through this assignment with any grace he was going to have to do the drawings his own way. He got a new paper from the stack at the center of his table and scarcely had it pinned to his drawing board before lines that made up John began to appear. Deltoid smoothes out into bicep. Tricep less pronounced from this angle. Capture the light on his collar bone. Tuft of hair at the nape of the neck.

Though John was again facing the other way, Sherlock called the image of his secret grin to the front of his mind. He did all he could to recreate the way time had seemed irrelevant in that shared moment, but his skills could only take him so far. Mostly thinking about it just made him want it to happen again. He grabbed a new piece of paper.

“Next pose, if you will,” the teacher called. John wordlessly shifted on the platform. He thoughtfully turned one hundred twenty degrees so the students in all parts of the room got something new to look at.

This pose featured John a little more reclined, more relaxed. Both his hands were placed palm-down on the platform’s surface; he leaned back onto them. One leg he stretched out and the other he bent up so his knee was at the level of his chest.

Sherlock couldn’t help but compare him to the Greco-Roman statues they’d gone over in preparation for this unit. He looked like a lounging god.

This new side view opened up so many opportunities, Sherlock was nearly overwhelmed deciding what to draw first. He settled on the legs. John was clad in jeans that were not form-fitting, but were tight enough in some places that Sherlock was able to make an artist’s rendition of the form underneath.

Five new stretches were added to Sherlock’s completed pile before the next change of pose was called. Sherlock struggled to swallow. The next one hundred and twenty degrees put John directly facing him.

Either confidence or boredom had moved John to try a more complicated pose. He shifted his weight to the side and tucked one leg under the other. Most of his weight rested on his right hand, placed on the table by his hip. His other hand moved to his neck, putting his elbow up and accenting the muscle in his sides and lower arm.

Any of these things alone would have put Sherlock in some compromised state of mind, but what dealt the final blow was John’s expression. Collected without being passive. Focused without being intrusive. Worst of all was his line of sight pinpointed on Sherlock.

Whereas Sherlock’s eyes darted about when he studied people, John’s gaze was steady and sure. Sherlock felt it as a tangible thing and wondered if John had felt the same about Sherlock’s eyes roaming his body for the past forty minutes. Were his veins coursing with unspent energy as well? Sherlock didn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge that he hoped they were.

Sherlock had to casually steal his neighbor’s pencil sharpener several times in the next twenty minutes. He had so much data on John stored up from the moment he walked in to now and all of it went to generating untried poses for John. Action shots, stills, close ups, it didn’t matter; Sherlock craved the texture of his skin and the light on his hair. How could he catch the thrill he felt glimpsing John’s impulsive tongue wet his lips or the way his chest fractionally rose and fell with every breath? The more Sherlock committed to unfeeling paper the more he consciously recognized John as a fellow living, breathing, blood-pumping creature.

“Time!” The teacher called. “Please throw away any pencil shavings and stack your drawing boards neatly where you found them. Great work today, everyone!”

The boy who had complimented John before got up to speak to him again. “Not bad for a detention, huh John?” Sherlock overheard.

“No, not bad at all,” John replied. His eyes drifted to Sherlock again and caught him staring. John did that thing, the secret smile that made his stomach do certain, very potently pleasant maneuvers. In his effort to look like he hadn’t been ogling him like he was still on the table, Sherlock almost missed John’s wink. John didn’t miss when Sherlock’s complexion suddenly deepened in color.

“What was the detention for?” the boy who was not John asked.

“Got into a fight, actually,” John said with shrug.

“Wow, really?” the boy clapped John on the back. Sherlock tensed at the stranger being able to touch and converse with John so easily. He wanted that too. He wanted to be closer to the one who now filled his thoughts and the pages of his sketchbook.

The bell chimed and the boy left along with most of the other students. John stayed behind to get a signature from the teacher, who was known to forget about such things if not reminded. Sherlock pretended to pack up some things that he had taken out specifically to stall in putting back. He timed it so he was just ahead of John walking out the door.

Say it. There wouldn’t be a better time. Sherlock kicked himself for every second that he didn’t spit his words out. If was barely a sentence, he could do it. He turned slightly, drew breath, and-

No sound. Just John’s expectant face.

Sherlock turned back twice as fast. It was no use, he was just too pretty.

Maybe it would be easier if he wasn’t looking. “You were defending someone,” he said. Yes, this was a much more successful method.

John huffed out a small laugh. “Word got out that fast, huh?”

“No, lucky guess.” It wasn’t, but Sherlock wasn’t going to push his vocal chord luck by explaining.

“Amazing,” John said.

“What?” Sherlock felt light headed.

“You,” he answered. “And your art. Let me know if you want some one-on-one modeling sessions.” He winked again.

Sherlock was at a loss for what to say.

“See you around then,” John said. He waved and disappeared into the crowd. Sherlock didn’t get much done but doodles of the same subject for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

The official excuse was that he needed three sketches of a human body in action. The actual reason for Sherlock repeatedly attending rugby practice involved a more personal interest.

Sherlock flipped through his sketchbook in search of a blank page. Nearly all of them featured John Watson exclusively. Some of the other members of his team had made an appearance, but only when strictly necessary to complete a scene. Compared to drawing John, which came so naturally to Sherlock, drawing others was tedious.

The players on the field divided into partners to do passing drills. Sherlock was familiar with their warm-up routine by now. John usually paired off with a boy whose name was Michael; if that was his first or last name Sherlock neither knew nor cared to. He had little interest in details about anyone who was not John or a to-be criminal these days.

The first of his action sketches had focused on John’s arm. The arc of his hand was seamless with the trajectory of the ball. There was a certain curve to his fingers that both made the movement appear effortless and indicate the highest level of dexterity. It was a dangerous combination that kept Sherlock focused on that toned skin and commonplace grace.

Many beginning artists fail to realize the importance of the torso and focus more on the seemingly more dynamic legs or arms to convey movement. This was a trap. The torso turned and gave direction to the other appendages of the body. The manipulation of that basic triangle showed motive and purpose. In this way, John’s compact form occupied a large section of Sherlock’s visual memory.

Sherlock tried to lend his drawings some of the determination John displayed on the field. Even when John was facing away in a sketch, he used the tense nature of his shoulders or the quick backpedal of his spikes in the earth to immortalize that moment on paper. The most amazing thing was that even if the team replayed the maneuver a hundred times, John would execute his role with precision that struck a chord with Sherlock that resounded in every corner of his mind. On the field, John was a small part of something larger, perfectly in sync to the workings of his teammates.

Connection to a group of people on any level was a foreign concept to Sherlock. More and more he envied John and his ability to coexist and rely on something with so many uncontrollable variables involved. He had sat in on enough practices to know that every member of the team was interconnected with trust and sportsmanship and an array of other idealistic values Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at a week ago. Now he saw how important such things were to John; they consistently drove the team to do the physically stunning things that had found their way into the pages of his sketchbook.

Sherlock wondered at his own chances of being part of something like that. He could probably pull his weight on the field, given that he was put in a position that was more running than slamming into other, more built players. Picking up on the jargon would hardly be a challenge either, the key to slang was mostly context anyway. It was the social aspect that would pose the greatest challenge, he thought without surprise.

He could imagine the awkwardness of the locker room. It would be filled with boys he was supposed to trust in various states of undress, hitting each on the shoulder and generally making fools of themselves. Sherlock knew he would hang back from the ruckus, waiting to get a chance at privacy, all the while hating whatever twisted state of mind that had got him into this mess.

But John would be there. Maybe he’d notice Sherlock’s discomfort and ruffle his hair, ask him what was wrong. Sherlock would mutter something about being fine, that nothing was wrong, and John would see right through that and pursue the matter. Sherlock would ask him why he cared so much, and John would pin him with that steady look, the one that made him feel trapped and safe at the same time.

On second thought, maybe there wouldn't be anyone else there at all. Sherlock didn't have to be on the team to be in the locker room. Maybe John would pull him in after everyone had left and tell him how he’d been waiting all day to get him alone. John would smell earthy, he’d be close enough to see the glisten of sweat still fresh on his brow or beading on his lip.

In his mind, Sherlock could pretend that he wasn't shy. He’d have something witty to say, something to drive John wild. He’d hear John’s breathing quicken and intermingle with his own. He’d feel the material of John’s uniform and know the exact texture of John’s hair, how it changed if it was wet with perspiration. He was overcome with wanting to know if John’s lips were capped or soft, or the angle that he’d tilt his head, if he’d ease into a kiss or surge up and take it from Sherlock’s eager mouth.

The scene skipped ahead as daydreams often do; somehow he was wearing John’s warm ups, the ones with “Watson” printed on the back. John had him backed into the lockers, kissing his neck and telling him, “I like that name on you…”

“Heads up!” the boy named Michael called out a little belatedly. Sherlock had just enough of his wits about him to cover his neck and duck before the rugby ball bounced on the seat behind him and harmlessly rolled to his feet.

“Sorry about that!” Michael shouted, running up to where the bleachers started. “Mind giving it a toss over here?”

Sherlock knew his throwing skills were lacking compared to anyone on the field, so he tucked his sketchbook under his arm and walked the ball down instead. To his surprise and excited embarrassment, John ran up to join Michael at the first row of bleachers.

“Thanks, mate,” Michael said when Sherlock handed over the wayward object. “Won’t happen again.”

“Don’t make any promises, Mike,” John cut in. “With your aim, it’s only a matter of time before you do some serious damage to our biggest fan.”

Sherlock knew he’d done nothing wrong sitting in on practices, but his face heated with guilt all the same. “Biggest fan?” he asked with hesitation.

“Yeah, you show up to more practices than some of our members,” John said with a pointed look at one such slacker by the water cooler. “You could be a mascot of sorts.”

“Really,” Sherlock said, not sure where this was going.

“Absolutely, I’d even get that old mascot head down from storage for you,” he said.

“You just love giving head, don’t you John?” Michael teased.

“Hey, if you were any good at eating pussy we’d poke fun at you for it, too,” John said in return. John seemed to remember something and turned to Sherlock with an apologetic look. “Sorry if our humor’s a bit vulgar.”

“Oh no, anytime,” Sherlock said quickly. Michael gave him a confused look. “I mean, it’s fine-”

“I know it’s fine,” John clapped him on the shoulder. “We’d better get back, thanks for stopping by.”

“See you ‘round, biggest fan,” Michael added. The two jogged back to join the huddle that was forming.

Sherlock walked back to his spot, a little unsteady on his feet. John had talked to him again, John had touched him, and John had been okay with the suggestive joke. It was a little much to take in. Even Michael (Mike?) had been not entirely insufferable, nice even.

Back at his seat, Sherlock added a sketch of Mike for variety. It was easier to do than he’d thought. Mike was taller than John and had a bit more muscle; his movements were more straightforward, which had a lot to do with his position on the field. It wasn't as thrilling as drawing John, but there was a simpleness to it that was a pleasant break from all the excitement.

That was the difference, Sherlock realized. Mike was just a subject, he knew enough about his gait, his habits in action to draw him accurately, but there was no connection to draw to anything else. With John he saw details (treads lightly on right foot due to past injury, ambidextrous, communicates with everyone on the field evenly) and that only served to deepen his curiosity. What parts of him were part of his life by default and which had he picked up for the sport? Would he still smile at Sherlock if he had not trained himself to be friendly with everyone on his team out of necessity?

Sherlock had experienced his fill of mutual avoidance with classmates. Even if someone were to reach out to him, his usual response was to hide. Simple shyness often morphed into biting remarks, which were really just badly phrased truths.The idea that someone might see all that and still want to get to know him was a hope that Sherlock had long abandoned, but a hope that had resurfaced in the form of John Watson.

It was too early to know anything for certain, Sherlock decided. He didn't know which was the scarier outcome, John rejecting him or John seeking friendship. Or, Sherlock blushed at the possibility, John wanting him past the point of friendship.

A whistle blew signaling the end of practice. The players meandered down field and picked up their gear. Sherlock’s eye caught on John lifting his warm ups from the pile and stood abruptly. The word “Watson” in block letters burned in his mind’s eye for the majority of his walk home.

Chapter Text

Class was agony today. Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration and flipped to yet another page of his sketchbook to start over. The assignments of the last month had been effortless, the ideas spouting from Sherlock’s mind to the paper as fast as he could put them there. Today was the end of that, it seemed. Sherlock had met yet another nemesis.

Portraits.

What was it about faces that was so difficult?! Drawing them had been simple when it was connected to the rest of the body. Change one little thing, the point of emphasis, and Sherlock was fumbling around like he had never held a pencil before.

“Why do you keep starting over?” the girl that sat next to him asked. They’d been in the same seating arrangement all semester and he still didn't know her name.

“It’s not right,” Sherlock muttered. He put his pencil to paper and promptly broke the lead.

The girl handed him her pencil sharpener. “That’s the nature of art isn't it? It can’t be completely right. By definition, I mean.”

“Yes, I understand the ideology,” said Sherlock, annoyed. He turned his pencil in the tiny pink sharpener with unnecessary aggression. The girl eyed his overzealous sharpening with caution. “I've adopted my own ideology,” Sherlock continued, “and that is to deny the existence of perfection is to give up on reaching it.”

The girl seemed to mull that over for a moment before giving her very polite verdict of “bullshit.” Sherlock turned to her, surprised. She calmly plucked the sharpener from his hands.

“You’re looking for a perfect answer where there is none,” she explained. “With portraits, you are trying to portray a person, to show the viewers who they are. It’s not a test on how accurately you can draw a nose or an ear, because even pictures don’t really show a whole person, and that’s as realistic as it gets.

“It’s like trying to make a flat map of a spherical Earth. You have to cheat a little, pick and choose, however you want to say it. The point is, you have to find a quality in that person that make them who they are. Once you find it, you find a way to draw it.”

“When you say quality, I’d imagine you don’t mean a physical one,” said Sherlock.

“No, and that’s why it’s tough,” the girl said with a small smile. “I’m drawing my dad. He died, a while back, and the thing I remember most about him was how he always tried to make others happy. He did this thing with his eyes that’s hard to describe,” she gestured to the beginning lines of it on her paper. “It was how he looked when he was waiting for the other person to laugh first. It doesn't make sense, I know-”

“No, I see it,” Sherlock said. And he did. Or at least he thought he did. If this girl had anything in common with her father, he definitely did. “What’s your name?”

“Molly,” the girl smiled a little more. “Molly Hooper.”

“I’m-”

“Sherlock Holmes, I know,” Molly said quickly. “We have three classes together.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said awkwardly. After that exchange they all but lapsed into silence.

The rest of class was no more productive than the first portion, but, thanks to Molly, the feeling of imminent combustion had receded somewhat. Since it was clear he wouldn’t get any actual drawing done, Sherlock flipped back to a failed sketch and started listing words.

Kind. Social. Athletic. It was a start, but it didn't go deep enough. Everyone knew that side of John, he wanted to bring out something more complex. Sherlock thought back to the modeling day and kept listing. Confident. Joking. Inviting. Relaxed. Focused.

He had stood up for someone else, had gotten in a fight over it. Dedicated. Moral.

Not a scratch on him to show for it. Experienced. Smart.

The bell rang and saved him from admitting anything as damning as “Ideal” to paper.

Molly shuffled all her loose papers into a neat pile and stowed them in her art folder, which featured a glossy print of three kittens in a basket on the front. “What class do you have next?” she asked conversationally.

“Chemistry,” Sherlock responded. He usually despised small talk, but somehow Molly did it without making him cringe. He clutched his sketchbook to his chest and followed her out the door.

“I've got maths on the other side of the building, so I guess we go our separate ways until tomorrow.” She gave a little wave.

“So it seems,” Sherlock replied. Molly turned left and disappeared into the crowd, Sherlock turned right only to collide with someone coming from the other direction.

“Sorry! You alright, biggest fan?” John. It was John.

Sherlock held his sketchbook tighter and willed himself not to blush. “Sherlock,” he blurted out for lack of anything else to say. What was the use of having a genius mind if it shorted out on him when he most needed it?

“Hm?”

You can do it, Sherlock, maintain eye contact. “That’s my name. Sherlock.”

“I know,” John said. He did? Did everyone know him before he knew them? “Hey, are you going to the game tonight?”

Sherlock tried his luck at a joke. “It’s in the job description, isn't it? Biggest fan?”

“Ha, I suppose it is.” John did that thing, the smiling thing, the thing that made Sherlock’s knees weak. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

He nodded. “See you tonight.” What beautiful phrase.

The conversation seemed to be over, but neither of them made a move to step away. Just as Sherlock had gotten up the courage to ask who they were playing, John did yet another thing that erased any chance for coherent thought: he wet his lips.

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't look away. Some sane corner of his mind hoped that John didn't notice, but an alarmingly large, reckless part of him wanted the exact opposite.

John opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind.

“Good luck,” Sherlock finally found his words.

“Cheers,” John said. He started to do the smiling thing again and Sherlock had to evacuate or be rooted to the spot forever.

Chapter Text

“Someone’s got a crush.”

Sherlock glared at the elder Holmes’ reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Shut up.”

“My, not even a rebuttal?” Mycroft crossed his arms and leaned into the doorframe, making Sherlock painfully aware of his amusement. The image of a cat toying with his food came to mind. “You really do have it bad.”

“I asked you to drive me to a school function, not delve into my psyche,” Sherlock protested. He was growing exceptionally weary of his brother’s bullshit. How could one check their face for blemishes with a law student over-analyzing their every move?

Mycroft sighed, already bored with the game. “You’ve changed shirts five times and you’ve been at your hair for the better part of an hour. Mummy told you to wear a hat anyway, what does it matter?”

Although he was loathe to admit it, Mycroft was right. It didn’t matter what he looked like; even though he knew John would be there, there was little chance of actually interacting with him. He was the star player on the night of a big game. He’d be among his teammates for the event and his friends after. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot, he knew he didn’t belong in any of John’s circles. He wasn’t the type that could push himself into the spotlight to stand next to someone like John Watson. And yet-

“I’ll be fine without, thanks,” Sherlock said. He gave his appearance a final once-over and tried out a tiny, closed-mouth grin. It wasn’t half bad.

The instant Mycroft’s car pulled away, Sherlock had many regrets. He hadn’t been to a sporting event since primary school and whatever ruckus he had just walked into was not that. Students pushed past him on all sides, streaks of their school colors under their eyes like warpaint. Everywhere he looked, clusters of teenagers and families were grinning and laughing, excited for a night out after a long week. The bleachers bordering the field were so full that people had taken to spreading blankets on the ground. Sherlock had neither a blanket, a place to sit, or friends to sit with. Maybe it wasn’t too late to ask Mycroft to come back? He might still be in the parking lot with the way traffic had been.

“Sherlock?”

A glance up from Mycroft’s contact screen revealed the speaker to be Molly Hooper.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

“Research for the figure unit,” Sherlock lied.

Molly looked doubtful. Sherlock belatedly remembered she’d seen him turn in his full body in action assignment last week. Whatever judgement she passed, however, she thankfully kept to herself. “Would you like to sit with me?” she asked instead. “I mean, not just me, I’m meeting a few people from my biology study group, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

Relief swept over Sherlock. Molly would be his guide in this absurd, sporty hellscape. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Molly’s friends weren’t all bad. They were loud, but they didn’t force Sherlock into much of the small talk he dreaded. One of them (George?) even offered to explain the basics of rugby when Sherlock admitted he knew almost nothing about how it was played. He was midway through the point system when the speakers crackled to life and the crowd cheered too loudly to continue the conversation. The cluster of them turned to face the field and joined in on the noise making. Even quiet Molly cupped her hands to her face like a megaphone to holler when the home team was announced.

The announcer, who was most likely the phys ed teacher, listed off the names of the starting line up. Sherlock thought the ceremony of it all was a waste of time until-
“...and finally, your captain, number forty-two, John Watson!”

Sherlock’s heart did a funny little jump in his chest. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

The first try went by fairly quickly. Sherlock, having already forgotten most of what George had told him before the match, took cues from the crowd on how to react to any given play. He wished several times that he were closer to the field. When he sat in on practices, Sherlock could easily see the player’s (John’s) expressions and actions from the front row. From this distance it was more like watching two colonies of ants fight over a crumb.

At halftime, Molly and George offered to hold their spots while Sherlock and the other two went down to the concession stand. Sherlock couldn’t care less about popcorn or hot chocolate, but it was an excuse to get closer to the field.

Sherlock pretended to be invested in the conversation about how the home team would have to make up the twelve point difference in the next half, but his attention kept drifting back to the field, hoping to catch a glimpse of a certain blonde captain. To his surprise, one of the players, the only one he cared about, waved in his direction. Sherlock gave a tiny wave back, small enough that no one would notice if he was mistaken and John was actually waving at someone else. To his alarm and delight, John started jogging toward him. Sherlock excused himself from the conversation with Molly’s friends and approached the chainlink fence that divided the throng of students from the field.

The closer he got, the more Sherlock realized how much trouble he was in. John was a vision. A sheen of sweat covered his smiling face, his compact arms, and the generous amount of thigh that rugby shorts provided. His short hair was sticking up on one side from a nasty roll he’d enduring near the end of the try, and Sherlock could spot a few strands of grass mixed with the dirty blonde. His uniform was rumpled and streaked with mud, which Sherlock would have found offputting on anyone else, but in his current state he could only appreciate how it made the material cling to John’s frame. He watched John’s chest expand and contract, expelling a huff of breath into the crisp evening air.

“Hey, biggest fan.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to pinch himself.

John grinned. “You’re not on your way out, are you? I promise we won’t be such rubbish in the next half.” His smile was infectious.

“You promise?” Sherlock teased.

“Cross my heart.”

“I’d rather you crossed the field.”

John laughed. “Sherlock Holmes, you wound me.”

Sherlock shrugged. He hoped his smile wasn’t too toothy and ridiculous, because he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

The chainlink fence made a sound like a rusty bell when John leaned on it, the fingers of his dominant hand wrapped around the interlocking diamonds. “Seeing as we’re doing so poorly,” John continued, his voice almost imperceptibly lower than before, “would you mind putting aside your role as biggest fan and be my good luck charm instead?”

Sherlock had to remind himself to keep breathing. “I, uh,” he said with the utmost intelligence, “yes. Of course.”

“Fantastic,” said John. Had his eyes always been so captivating? “I’d better get back.”

“Good luck,” he managed to say despite having the mental capacity of a landed fish. He might as well be, with all the staring he was doing.

John started jogging back to his teammates, giving his newly appointed good luck charm a final look over his shoulder. Was that a wink? Sherlock was losing his mind, and what worried him most was that he didn’t care.

The second try had the home team bleachers roaring. From what Sherlock had pieced together from George, John had divided his best players evenly between the first and second string, instead of frontloading like the opposing team. As a result, the home team was making quite the comeback.

It wasn’t until the lead was secure that Molly’s friends started to divulge other, non-rugby details about the captain. Molly claimed that he was pants at chemistry, but he’d been a decent partner for a presentation last semester. She had a fear of public speaking, but with her data and John’s charm, they’d done very well.

“Not good at chemistry?” Samira said, incredulous. “Um. He has very good chemistry with about half the school.” It must have been some kind of inside joke, because Sherlock was the only one who was not amused.

“Remember Cosette?” the boy who was not George added. Sherlock vaguely remembered the graduating senior from last year. She was tall, pretty, and had been accepted to study in the States.

“Was she the one John blew off for Homecoming or Prom?” George asked.

“It was worse than that, mate,” said Will. “John chatted her up for weeks before Prom. She was certain he was going to ask her, right, so she turns down all these other blokes. At the last minute, he ends up asking her sister!”

“No.” Sherlock refused to believe it. Not John Watson.

“I remember now,” said George. “He’s a terrible flirt, isn’t he?”

“Terrible,” Samira agreed, “I won’t name names, but he’s been leaving a string of broken hearts with the boys too.”

The group fell into speculation about various members of the rugby team and what qualified as ‘bad boy’ behavior. By the time they got into the details of a certain 50s musical, Sherlock was too sick to listen. John wasn’t paying him any special attention. He was just another in a long line of flirtations. Sherlock wondered how many other wide-eyed fans had fallen for the ‘good luck charm’ line. God, he was stupid.

Molly tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock busied himself with his coat buttons. “Fine.”

Molly didn’t say anything more, but Sherlock could tell she wasn’t convinced.

Chapter Text

Mike&Psych: hey, what’s the hold up? Did you lose your car again?

JohnWatsUp: ha ha ha you dick

JohnWatsUp: I thought I saw Sherlock. I was going to invite him to come with us

Mike&Psych: [eyes emoji]

JohnWatsUp: Shut up! He’s our #1 fan

Mike&Psych: More like YOUR #1 fan

Mike&Psych: And you're his.

Mike&Psych: smh

JohnWatsUp: …

Mike&Psych: Well, hurry up! Half the team already have their victory milkshakes

Mike&Psych: even andy, and I’m pretty sure he’s lactose intolerant

Mike&Psych: They need you, Captain [Serious face] [British flag emoji]

JohnWatsUp: I see him, one sec

Mike&Psych: That’s it! Work your charm, loverboy

Mike&Psych: <3 <3 <3

JohnWatsUp: Um

Mike&Psych: ?

JohnWatsUp: I waved, and I thought he saw me, but he just walked away??

JohnWatsUp: Yeah he def saw me

JohnWatsUp: I’ll be there soon

Mike&Psych: :(

Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. He was better than this, wasn’t he? Focusing on school, on facts, had always been easy. Not always entertaining, but never as frustrating and confusing as whatever was taking up all his brain space now.

John Watson didn’t care about him any more than the last lonely, vulnerable heart he had broken. Even if he did, or thought he did, there was no guarantee Sherlock would hold his interest the next week, or, who was he kidding, the next day. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He wished he could just delete this whole tangled jumble of memories and lingering feelings from his brain.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t remove the image of John’s dumb, perfect smile from his head, but he could destroy the physical evidence that this whole futile endeavor had ever happened. He sat up and pulled his sketchbook out of his book bag.

The best of the rugby drawings had been cut out, mounted on card stock, and turned in for credit. He’d have to wait until the end of the unit to dispose of those. Sherlock flipped to the beginning of the unit, to the sketches from that first day of modeling. The day Sherlock was doomed to meet John and fall for his perfect, sculpted, artists’ catnip of a body.

It wasn’t fair, Sherlock thought, looking at the sketches. They were just preliminary studies (his lines had improved a lot since the beginning of this unit, he realized), but he could see in every stroke of graphite how much care he’d taken to capture John’s image. The way the lines got more frenzied as he turned the pages made his stomach turn. He had been so wrapped up in the idea of John Watson, and that was before he’d learned so many of his more interesting traits. He turned the page and found the list of adjectives he’d written out for the portrait unit. All his naive misjudgements glared up at him from the page. Kind, confident, inviting.

Sherlock held the page tightly, ready to tear it out. His face felt hot. He willed himself to just do it already. The page perforation strained, but didn’t tear. Idiot! What could he possibly gain from harboring all these childish feelings for someone who would never be as invested in him? If he could just destroy this marker of shame, maybe he could move on. He could go back to the way things were. When things were safer, more concrete. More predictable.

Sherlock sighed and dropped the book on his lap. He couldn’t go through with it. Even if John Watson hurt him, he couldn’t go back to the way things were. Now that he knew the excitement of another person looking at him with an earth-shattering grin, the feeling of his knees going weak from a quick exchange of words, he could never go back to being the cold, unconcerned, bored Sherlock from a month ago.

A week passed. Whenever Sherlock saw that familiar letterman jacket, or heard John’s (delightful, heartbreaking) laugh down the corridor, he took evasive action. He kept his eyes on the floor, ducked around corners, took unconventional routes, and otherwise made his way to class as quickly as possible. John wasn’t in any of his classes, and he hadn’t shown up in art class since the detention modelling day.

Sherlock tried to pay attention to the introduction on their next art unit. Drawing landscapes in perspective. Urgh.

The good news was that they’d be getting their figure unit work back the following Monday. Sherlock could finally collect the product of his shame and put this whole thing behind him.

When Molly bid him goodbye at the door, Sherlock turned in the direction of his next class and nearly had a heart attack.

“Are you avoiding me?” asked John Watson.

Sherlock sputtered. “W-what?”

John’s eyes drifted sideways. “It’s just, I haven’t seen you since the game.”

“We,” Sherlock struggled to keep his heart from beating so forcefully, “We don’t hang out. I can’t be avoiding you if we don’t have an established pattern of contact.”

John looked hurt. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess so, but. I thought we were about to? Y’know. ‘Establish a pattern of contact’.” He gave a weak smile.

Sherlock could feel his resolve crumbling. Why did John have to have puppy eyes, on top of everything else?

No, stay strong, Sherlock. “That was before I found out how many #1 fans you had. Captain.” He walked around a dumb-struck John and practically sprinted to class.

John was left standing, befuddled, in front of the empty art display case.

“Wait. What?”