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.