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John was upset. He would have preferred to take classes with his friends or, at the very least, someone he knew; but instead, he was forced to spend two hours working with a new lab partner. He had been pushing himself to step outside his comfort zone that year. He announced his attraction to both boys and girls without much fanfare when he returned from holidays, and other than the odd hurtful remark, nothing had gone wrong. His friends had accepted him without altering the nature of their relationship. This prompted John to run for rugby team captain, a position he won with cheers and applause. Even though he was content with his choices and felt confident in himself, John should have avoided enrolling in a class that none of his friends were in. Even though he was not very good at interacting with strangers, he made the decision to give it his best shot.
He went into the lab and took a seat by an empty table. He was wondering again, phone in hand, if it was too late to request a change to his best friend's class, when he felt the weight of someone sitting in the chair next to him. His gaze fell on the outline of a prominent jaw and nose, those of a tall, graceful figure. The newcomer had not spoken to him, nor had he even looked at him; he exuded superiority by standing distant. At the crack of the hour, an overwhelming number of students arrived, carrying an unidentified odor. The sweet, slightly sickening scent was coming from somewhere, but John could not place it. He surreptitiously sniffed at his clothes, but still could not pinpoint the source. He wrinkled his nose with disgust. His new partner quickly looked around and broke the silence with his soft voice.
— Flora Millar.
— What?
— It's not you. And, before you smell me, let me assure you that it is not me either.
John stared at him, puzzled.
—The smell is a combination of denatured ethanol, fixative, propylene glycol, distilled water, vanilla and raspberry essences, and traces of grape juice.
— Flora…
—Flora Millar spilled grape juice on her shirt (the two light stains on the right side of the collar are still visible), and then poured an entire bottle of perfume on herself in an attempt to erase or hide them. Unsuccessfully.
— That's... very impressive.
The only response was a hum and a nod, with smugness visible in the folds of his smile.
— I am…
—John Watson. Captain of the rugby team — he cut him off while examining him—. The muscles of the arms, shoulders, back, and thighs show evidence of training. The calluses on your fingers and the way you hold your hands indicate your grip on the ball. The posture of the head and the clear use of the voice indicate a position of command; however, due to the lack of airs of superiority, I would venture to say that the promotion is recent or that you are a very modest person. Or both — he paused briefly before continuing — : You are upset about being here. You are uncomfortable and would prefer to be with your friends. But you are stuck with a guy you do not know... and do not particularly like — he concluded with a slight smile.
John exhaled. He had not realized he was holding his breath.
— Awesome — he whispered, his eyes sparkling with admiration.
A deep red colored the face of the boy sitting rigidly next to him.
— Sherlock — he murmured, hiding his embarrassment with a clearing of his throat — . My name is Sherlock Holmes.
— Pleasure — John responded, looking at his lab partner with renewed interest.
These classes were turning out not to be as boring as he had thought.
✨✨✨
He started to enjoy chemistry classes the most. Since they were the only ones he shared with Sherlock, John was eager to spend a few hours with the perceptive and clever boy. He said little, but when he did, John was amazed at his detailed observations and accurate deductions.
John was already noticing that there seemed to be no one else in the class with whom Sherlock shared his thoughts. Perhaps was the close proximity or the unreserved praises he could not hold back after every encounter; Sherlock's lack of awareness of his other fellow classmates provided John with an odd sense of self — satisfaction. When he did manage to get a word or a smile out of him, the rest of the day was spent in a state of overwhelming happiness.
One morning, Sherlock figured out right away that John had eaten a whole wheat muffin and a cup and a half of black coffee for breakfast.
— It is evident, John — he said, grinning at his friend's surprise—. The color of your teeth, the crumbs in the corner of your mouth, the stain on the cuff of your shirt, even your breath and dry mouth reveal it.
— You are amazing, really — John repeated — . Brilliant.
They developed a routine out of it. Sherlock sat waiting, gazing expectantly at the door, until John entered. Subsequently, his tense muscles eased, he greeted him warmly and correctly estimated the breakfast eaten a few hours prior. John would reciprocate with a flurry of admiring remarks, and Sherlock would inevitably smile and flush his cheeks.
After a few months, a friendship grew between smiles and glances. John struggled to concentrate in class because he had been training hard all week and had only gotten a few hours of sleep. With his face resting on the palm of his hand, he had been staring into space when a "John" suddenly snapped him back to the present. Sherlock had attempted to rouse him from his daze by gently murmuring in his ear, but by doing so, he had sentenced John to an additional week of insomnia.
Every time John got into bed, no matter what he did, he could not help but think back on that particular moment. An electrical spark from that deep voice next to his ear had landed in his brain and shot through his spine. As he realized the impact that voice had on him, he also started to notice other aspects of Sherlock that moved, astounded, or simply left him speechless. He was fascinated by his hands, which were long and delicate, covered in small spots and scars. He studied them whenever he had the chance, thinking about them with the same joy as a lepidopterist who has discovered a rare species of butterfly. His elegant bearing, as well as the beauty of his features, were not overlooked. He liked his quiet laugh and the sly gleam in his grey eyes. He was already familiar with his scent: leather, ammonia, and a hint of ginger. Long fingers tangled in his hair and the whispering tone of a deep voice next to his ear haunted John’s dreams.
The smile that he had when he arrived at the laboratory stayed with him all day, and his heart beat with hope every time he received a shy smile back. Sherlock was starting to open up: it was not unusual for him to initiate interactions, despite blushes and stutters. John started to show signs of confidence and began to communicate his feelings through his significant looks.
— You changed your hairstyle — he told him one morning as he sat down — . I like how it shows your eyes.
Sherlock just muttered a shy "thank you," but from that point on, he consistently arrived each morning with the same hairdo, despite the fact that it took him fifteen more minutes to get ready in front of the mirror.
Conversely, the game wasn't over and Sherlock had not erred one bit. John made the decision to make things more difficult for him that day. He arrived at class wearing a cheeky grin and waited in front of Sherlock. Sherlock studied him closely, keeping a distance of only a few centimeters.
— I should have realized that you are not a fan of losing — he declared, biting his lip to hold back his laughter.
John forced himself to ignore the shiver that that baritone voice gave him, as well as the overwhelming urge to bite that lip in front of him.
— Spirulina diluted in melted butter and two purple grapes! — he exclaimed triumphantly — . Dear John, although I am flattered that you are testing my limits, I would not suggest sticking with that diet. It is unhealthy and, frankly, repulsive.
With the goofy smile that assaulted him every time Sherlock addressed him as "dear," he invited him to play along.
— Tell me.
— Spirulina leaves a distinctive green color on the teeth, and your lips use to be drier — he said, focusing his gaze on John's mouth.
Under the scrutiny of that watchful gaze, John held back a shudder and tried not to dwell too much on the fact that Sherlock had taken the time to notice that detail about his lips.
—Today —Sherlock went on— they are moisturized with a slight shine. Furthermore, I can see a red grape skin between your canine and first premolar — he added, shifting his gaze to John's eyes—. You hate red grapes; you would only eat one to tease me — he smiled — , but your slightly obsessive personality led you to eat two just to be sure.
John grinned back, feeling his heartbeat pick up as he realized how close they had come. His breath fell softly on Sherlock's lips as he started to lean, beckoning him to take the step that would bring them together. Just as his eyelids were closing, the professor arrived and class began. The lab went silent.
That afternoon, something unexpected was scrawled on the Wall: a wall that had once been covered in student drawings and graffiti had transformed into a public confessional featuring anonymous testimonies with the audacity of someone disclosing another person's secret. The message was written in a handwriting that was paradoxical, reflecting both order and chaos in equal measure:
I'm gay and hopelessly in love with the rugby captain
Mike Stamford decided right away that he needed to find out who wrote it. It had been months since John had been to a party, and even longer since he had been out on a date. He was a wonderful person, a good captain, and an excellent friend. With the help of the team, Mike set out to find love for the adorable John Watson. They took a photo of the message and printed flyers with Stamford's cell phone number and a few lines asking the writer to get in contact.
When John arrived the next day, aisles brimming with the pamphlets greeted him right away. What should he do now? He was moved by his team's enthusiasm and knew they had the best of intentions. But before setting out on such an unusual adventure, he would have preferred to be asked. The identity of the enigmatic admirer did not pique his interest, after all. He only had eyes for one certain tall boy with a shy smile.
He told his teammates about his feelings for his lab partner in the locker room after training. Mike's phone beeped loudly just as he was about to conclude his recounting of the thousand and one sweet moments they had spent together.
A text.
Happy?
— Listen — Mike said to John, slightly embarrassed — . You started telling us about your crush, so I kept quiet. However, I received a text from someone claiming to be the author of the message on the wall, so I asked to see evidence.
John grabbed the phone and read the text:
John?
Yeah
I’m your secret admirer
The one from the wall
Prove it
The video below showed a hand writing on paper in that distinctive handwriting:
This is proof that I wrote the words "I am gay and hopelessly in love with the rugby captain" on the Wall.
John's heart skipped a beat as he recognized that hand. How could he not? It was the hand that promised gentle caresses on his skin and tickles on his neck, saturating his deepest, darkest fantasies. He had imagined that same hand entwined with his innumerable times, fiddling with his hair, caressing the back of his neck tenderly along with soft sighs and kisses.
Happy?, said the last text.
Very, John typed.
So… you like me?
I assumed that had already been established.
Why didn't you say anything?
Personally, I mean
Afraid you would reject me
It was a great day for me when you came out as bisexual
John chuckled.
I bet so
Wait... did you already like me then?
Yes
For a while now
A mischievous smile spread across John's lips as he typed the following text:
Sorry… I did not want to raise your hopes
I have a big crush on someone
And he added quickly, before the joke ended poorly:
My lab partner
He doesn't know
But I am lovesick as a fool
Was thinking about asking him out
It took a few minutes for the following text to show up:
Really?
You should
I have your blessing then?
Totally
Ask him
He'll say yes
Thanks
Loved talking to you
Same
Goodbye
See you later, John
John laughed as he read the final text in the chat: of course he would see him later. His cheeks ached; he had been grinning foolishly in front of the rugby team without even realizing it. When he returned his cell phone to Mike, he gave him an expectant look.
— So? Do you and the mystery nameless boy have a date?
— No — John exclaimed, and walked out of the locker room, still smiling.
Even though it was early, Sherlock was waiting for him. He greeted him as usual, then took a seat beside him. They did not say anything the entire class, but whenever their eyes met, they would both blush and smile. As the lab started to empty after class, John plucked up the courage to say:
—I was wondering... —Sherlock looked up at him, drinking in his gaze. John felt nervous, but he asked—: Would you like to have lunch with me today?
— Sure — Sherlock replied, his cheeks flushed.
— I... I mean it's a date — John clarified — , a lunch date.
Sherlock smiled, biting his lower lip.
—Yes… I would like that.
He tentatively reached out to put his hand in John's, and John's fingers slid together. Their eyes locked, and they closed the distance between them in an instant. With his eyes still fixed on the mouth that was inches from his own, Sherlock closed his eyes slightly and felt the hand that held his jaw, guiding him into the kiss that they had been putting off. Moments were frozen in time as his free hand made contact with John's nape. Their first kiss was gentle, sweet, and tender.
—Sweetened tea with milk and toasted bread covered with butter and jam — Sherlock whispered against his lips.
John burst into laughter, pleased with his defeat in this peculiar game they had created. They continued to laugh as they took a quick kiss before leaving the lab to go to the cafeteria. They held hands the entire time they were eating lunch.
Mike missed his presence at the team table, but he made no comment when John asked him to send him the Wall photo and the secret admirer video.
✨✨✨
The living room was starting to get dark as the afternoon was coming to an end. The TV was on, but John had long since given it up on watching it as he sat next to his boyfriend on the couch. Holding his cell phone, he was mumbling to himself while deleting files he did not need and saving the rest. He was suddenly met with a picture that made him smile: some hardly readable text scrawled on a wall.
—Did I ever tell you that I had a secret admirer? —he asked Sherlock in a whisper.
As he continued, John could feel the boy's tension under his hug:
— He was so crazy about me that he wrote it on a wall — he said dreamily —. A gesture like that would undoubtedly have won me over — and after a pause, he added —. It is a shame I was already madly in love with him a long time ago.
— Didn’t he know… — Sherlock asked quietly, snuggling closer to the warm body at his side — , that you liked him?
— I don't think so.
— What an idiot! — Sherlock sighed and kissed John's cheek almost reverently.
— Do not let him hear you say that — John whispered in his ear — he can be pretty arrogant.
And kissed his boyfriend's lips to remove the false expression of offense.