Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. W. Sherlock S. Holmes and John H. Watson. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
It doesn't sound right, whichever way he puts it. No matter how many times he turns it around in his head and even on his tongue, tasting the sound of the two names together. It doesn't fit.
And how could it? They're practically the polar opposites of each other. Sherlock is lanky, pale, quiet and abnormally interested in crime. John Watson is short, blonde and the captain of the rugby team. Used to be, Sherlock corrects himself. And the main focus of Sherlock's attention for over two years, for as long as they went to the same school. It had been absolutely torturous going to school every day with him there, seeing him flirt with the cheerleaders and joke with his friends. When they finally graduated - Sherlock two years early - Sherlock couldn't wait to start a life free of the gigantic distraction of the older rugby captain. It slowed him down and he couldn't count the times he'd missed an important detail because he was thinking of, or looking at, John Watson.
He'd thought this would now be over, seeing as they'd go to university. They'd leave their hometown. He would never even risk the chance of bumping into John (Watson, he added in thought; he couldn't not say his last name or he'd get even more attached than he already was) while shopping for groceries because they'd live in different cities.
Or, of course, that's what he'd thought.
The harsh reality hit him the day he was moving into his dorm room. He was carrying two cardboard boxes and had a leather bag flung over his shoulder. Even as he was nearing the room 221, he heard someone talking inside. This of course wasn't anything earth-shattering, seeing as he knew he'd have to put up with a roommate. Even after he'd sulked at Mycroft for over two months for not fixing him his own room. His brother had said it was all part of the "uni experience" as he called it, and refused to help in any way.
He was mentally cursing his brother as he came to a stop at the door. He'd have to share his room with a moronic university student, who'd no doubt be more interested in partying and celebrating his freedom from parents than in actual work. The mere thought nearly drove Sherlock to call Mummy and try persuading her - again - to rent him a flat. But he'd promised he'd at least try. One month, they'd agreed. And if after that he still wants to move, he'll get a flat.
One month. He could do one month, he assured himself. He took a deep breath and reached for the handle.
And then, something caught his eye. He hadn't noticed before - he cursed himself - due to the boxes somewhat blocking his sight, but there it was. Under the room number, an A4 sheet of paper. And on it, in black ink, the printed words:
Room 221
Sherlock Holmes
John Watson
He was sure his breathing stopped. He needed to turn back, needed to call Mummy. She'd understand. They didn't agree to this. Sharing a room with an idiotic uni student? Manageable. Sharing a room with John Watson? He couldn't... He couldn't possibly...
Oh! But suddenly, it was all clear to him. Both John and Watson were very common English names. It was a mere coincidence. His heart seemed to calm. All right, it was all right.
And then the door opened. Or, to put more accurately, slammed in his face. Sherlock, who had been deep in thought and didn't notice the handle moving, was thrown off balance and to the corridor floor.
He gasped in shock as his back hit the ground. He'd lost the grip on his boxes and they'd flown to the floor as well, books skidding further down the hallway. But neither the shock nor embarrassment of having just being knocked the wind out of couldn't compete with the sheer terror he felt as his eyes met the ones of the boy who'd caused it.
This was definitely not all right. This was definitely his John Watson. And he looked so apologetic Sherlock would have laughed (if this wasn't him and if this wasn't a dorm hallway).
"Oh, God, are you all right?" The boy knelt down beside him. But by that point, Sherlock's brain was in full panic mode. He nodded whilst trying desperately not to make any more eye contact and gather his things as fast he could.
"Here, let me help," John said as he started to pick books and notebooks off the floor. There was genuine concern in his voice. Sherlock felt his stomach twist.
"N-no, I'm alright, thank you, sorry," he blabbed, trying to get John to leave and end this encounter as soon as possible. But John wouldn't pay attention. His back was to Sherlock as he hunched on the ground, putting things back into boxes. And, God, he was so beautiful. Sherlock couldn't help admiring his back, the way his muscles moved under his flannel shirt, the softness of his hair. He needed John to leave, now, or he'd never solve this. Seeing as all his boxes were packed up again anyway, he stood up. So did John.
"You really didn't have to do that,-" he started, his face bright red.
"Of course I did! I knocked you down, it's the least I can do," John said. He hesitated for a moment, giving Sherlock a quite thorough once-over. Sherlock tried his best, but couldn't quite manage avoiding John's gaze and their eyes met, once again. He was sure he was blushing even harder than when he first hit the ground. He decided it best to focus staring on the floor.
"Hey... I know you, don't I?" The blonde asked.
"I don't think so," Sherlock supplied.
"No, wait, wait, I can get this," John continued, not leaving Sherlock any room to escape this conversation. He couldn't bare being the object of John's scrutiny, it was far, far too much. But he had no other choice. John stared at him, squinting his eyes. Suddenly, realization dawned in them.
"You're from school, aren't you?" He said, sounding far too pleased for figuring out something so unimportant. Sherlock resisted the urge to tell him how high the chances were of him being, as he said, "from school". He just nodded.
"Right, I knew it. I've seen you!" John beamed at him. Sherlock knew he had to say something, but he couldn't. His throat was dry.
"You're a quiet one, huh?" John asked, his smile still not faltering. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Sorry, I-" he started, but he didn't know how to end the sentence.
Suddenly, John's eyes widened a notch.
"Oh, wait. No, this is brilliant. You're- this is your room too, right? You're..," he turned to look at the door, "...Sherlock Holmes, right? I knew I'd heard your name somewhere!"
Sherlock felt his stomach going into knots, furling and unfurling. He couldn't help thinking about how much only the name John Watson meant to him, and how little his name meant to John. How he didn't even remember it, had to read it again from the paper on their door. John looked at him once more, smiling, his eyes shining warmly. Sherlock couldn't breathe.
"Look, I have to go - as I'm sure you noticed," John said, smiling, "but I'll see you later, right?"
Sherlock's tongue finally allowed him to speak.
"I don't think you will. I'm..," he couldn't find the right words, he couldn't, "...not staying," he finishes lamely, biting his lower lip.
He would later write this off as a figment of his imagination, but at that moment he was sure he saw John's smile diminish, even if just a bit.
"Oh... Why?" he asked, taken aback.
"It's... I'm getting a flat," he said, and what kind of a horrible response was that?
John took a shallow breath and frowned, but smiled again, ever so mutedly. "Well, alright," he said, looking pointedly at Sherlock's boxes, still sitting packed up on the ground.
"Don't forget your things then," he said, smirking, raising one eyebrow, and Sherlock was sure John knew he had been bluffing. He swallowed thickly.
"I won't."
John nodded, waved goodbye and stepped over the boxes, leaving. "Thank you," Sherlock murmured to his back.
"You're welcome," John responded quite loudly, looking over his shoulder and - this was just mocking Sherlock, now - winking.