Chapter Text
Sherlock and John didn't speak much. Didn't need to. There was an unspoken routine, one of them in the room, the other out. They avoided sharing the space for more than a few minutes at a time, at least until late in the evening or early morning. No real eye contact. Just glances at the floor, the walls, the bed, or each other. Short, functional looks. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. John pretended he didn’t.
Sometimes John would come in to find him pacing. Not the restless kind of pacing, but measured, exact, like he was rehearsing something in his head. Other times he’d be sitting cross-legged on the floor, tapping two fingers against his knee in a fast rhythm. Or flicking the edge of a book over and over with his thumb, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Little things. Odd, but not... alarming. Just different. John didn’t mention it. He was trying to avoid getting invested.
John got up at 7:00. He usually slept in, but this was his first official day, and he had no time to waste; he needed to make a good impression. Quietly, John pulled out the suitcase from beneath his bed. He paused for a second and peered over at Sherlock’s side of the room. Still asleep. Good. John had learnt very quickly that Sherlock Holmes was a twat, and that was only enhanced tenfold if someone dared to interrupt his sleep.
He had accidentally done so on his first night. John had gotten up to make tea to calm his nerves about his first day, and although he used the microwave instead of the kettle to soften the noise, apparently the two beeps that had sounded before John got his tea had inflicted serious damage on Sherlock’s sleep schedule and mental function. As retaliation, the next morning John had been awakened at 3:32 am by Sherlock standing over his bed, vigorously playing the Flight of the Bumblebee. Once it concluded, Sherlock just walked back over to his bed and slept as if nothing had happened.
So yes, John had reluctantly been more alert in his morning routine. John shifted his top layer of clothes to find a shirt for his first rugby practice. It couldn’t be John’s usual loose hoodie and sweatpants; they were too easy to get snagged on. John grimaced putting on the tighter-than-usual jersey- damn that dryer. He shifted into the kitchenette and grabbed the custom mug his mum had made with Archie’s face on it. He kept an eye on the microwave timer before it hit 0 and took a sip of his hot tea.
John grabbed his water bottle and debated slamming the door or being the bigger man, and although John would consider himself a better man than Holmes– John couldn’t resist just dipping back in and tilting Sherlock’s coffee table 2 inches just to set the bloke off. The day felt brighter already.
John technically reached the pitch five minutes beforehand, but he held back. He wasn’t a sweat or a try-hard, and he most certainly wasn’t going to be standing out there, alone, just waiting when the rest of the team arrived.
“Hey, John, right?”
John quickly turned to see one of the blokes from the elevator. “Oh, yeah. Did I catch your name last time?”
“Oh yeah, sure. I’m Harry. You a rugby lad too?” Harry asked.
“Are you kiddin’?” Finally, something John was confident in. Harry and John began to walk onto the pitch together, discussing rugby. Practice was a step up from John’s old high school, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. John was good at rugby, but he wasn’t the best yet. He would be. He’d have to be to keep his scholarship. After practice, John, Harry, Harper, and Damon were walking over to the changing rooms to rinse and get out of their sweaty clothes.
“Can’t believe you’re playing in skinny jeans.” Harry snorted.
“Oi? No they’re not! They’re just normal- average jeans.” Damon huffed back, trying entirely too hard to convince the others that they were normal.
“They’re jeans, and they're skinny dawg.”
They were funny, and they included John. What more could he ask? They reached the changing rooms, and John paused. “Oh shit. I just remembered, my roommate asked me to water his plant or sumthin.” John complained.
“Oh, what roommate’d you get?” Damon asked, pausing at the doorway.
“Oh, some wiry bloke called Sherlock. Know him?”
The group paused, and Harper winced. “Oof. Good luck with that, mate. Holmes has quite the reputation.”
Harry barked out a laugh. “Dude’s a proper head case!”
John raised an eyebrow. “What’d he do?”
“Last year he dissected a frog in bio and stitched the bloody limbs back together on opposite sides.”
“So like– feet for hands and arms for legs?” John raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly.”
“I think it was already dead.” Harper chimed in.
“How d’you know? You're not in advanced biology?” Damon questioned.
“My sister’s in his class.”
“Yeah well he still kept the thing.” Harry pointed out, trying to get back onto the topic of discussion.
“He did not.” Harper refuted, speaking directly to John.
“He absolutely did.” Harry reasserted, also now speaking directly to John.
“No, he gave it to Molly.” Damon noted.
“Who?” Harper and Harry said in unison.
“The science chick.”
“Oh yeah that’s way better.” Harry scoffed light-heartedly.
The group dissolved in laughter. “You’re all full of shit.” John snorted.
“Oi, no we’re not.”
Harry lowered his voice. “You know the skull he keeps?”
John froze. He’d seen something vaguely skull shaped on his desk amongst the chaos.
“Apparently, he talks to it at night.” Harper added.
“Oh come off it.” John rolled his eyes.
“Nah, swear on my life.”
“Where would he even get a human skull?” Damon asked, genuinely curious.
“No clue.”
“But yeah– point is. Don’t get close to Holmes.” Harry finally said.
John shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Wasn’t planning on it.” John sighed fondly, checked his watch, and remembered he had to go. “Right, been fun destroying you guys, but I gotta go for real.”
“Get fucked, John. See ya next practice!”’
John made his way to his dorm room through the back entrance of the building, trying to map out more of the giant school as quickly as possible. He paused at the doorway at the scent of… dog piss? He hesitantly opened the door, and there was Sherlock Holmes, leaning on the windowsill, head out the window, smoking something. John rolled his eyes. Great. Just the perfect roommate.
“What’re you doin’?” John crossed his arms as he approached.
Sherlock just looked John up and down like he was a bug. “Smoking. It’s rather obvious, is it not?” He asked, genuinely considering if John couldn’t use his eyes and nose to deduce that he was smoking.
John’s jaw tensed. “Well, can you do that outside of the dorm? It smells like piss, and you’ll get us in trouble.”
Sherlock just ignored John, opting to stare out at the rugby pitch below, people-watching. “That’s hypocritical. You need a shower yourself,” he muttered bluntly, still preoccupied with his people-watching.
“Excuse me?” John stared at him, mouth agape.
His condescending and self-assured tone was something unbearable. No wonder his friends told John to keep his distance. Sherlock Holmes was a prick, and surely John didn’t smell too bad. John opened his mouth to start arguing, but he subtly sniffed himself.
Crap.