A Study At Bullimore

22

John's rugby game was the next day. It was cold and damp, the proper start of winter. Sherlock stood next to Mike and Greg, who were talking amongst themselves, wrapped in his favourite black coat. The Lads, as they called themselves now, had joked that Sherlock over dressed for every occasion, for a rugby match he donned a dark blue shirt and trousers, but Sherlock had smiled and told them that it was the first match of the season, so of course he'd make an effort. In reality, he liked the routine of the outfits. He knew he was attractive, and he looked most attractive in suits. Anything else felt dirty, or wrong, as if he were a rat wearing human clothes. Moreover, the texture of the shirt against his skin was the only one that didn't make him feel as though he were about to scream, so it was a situation that worked in his favour.

Sherlock wished he could have the variety that John modelled. He was almost envious of his jumpers and polos and t-shirts. The colours, the textures, he seemed to look nice in everything. Sherlock fancied a jumper of his own, but they didn't flatter him he way that the shirts did. He watched John stretch on the field and could tell he was nervous. It was his first match of the season after all. Sherlock didn't understand why John was involved in such a ridiculous game, but it seemed to bring him joy, so Sherlock humoured him. It was so un-John like. The small, studious, quiet man playing rough and tumble, it was almost laughable. Sherlock invested his interest in him for the simple reason that it added dimension to John.

Sometimes, in idle moments, Sherlock found himself wondering what got John into rugby in the first place. He wondered if it was a primary school teacher, a drive to be fit and untouchable or, as Sherlock suspected, a more sinister reason. John was complex, there were so many question marks that hung in Sherlock's vision whenever he thought of John, trying to make sense of his life story. He knew that there was a reason why his behaviour affected John so, there was a reason why he seemed to hold onto Sherlock's coat tails with desperation despite the burning pile of waste that he was. There was more to John than there seemed to be with others. More angles and additions and colours.

With the blow of a whistle, the game begun, and Sherlock found himself drifting his gaze to John, who was currently standing still, rather than near the ball. It frustrated him, being unable to unlock John. It was easy to do with others – they opened up so easily. Take Mike, for example, his family had a large amount of money, his grandmother acting as the matriarch with all the wealth. He flaunted it, not purposefully, but obviously enough. He always wore a heavy strapped Rolex on his wrist, his glasses from some brand like Gucci or Prada. His shoes always perfectly souled, the leather well kept. They were small things, but they made Mike appear more like a person, he was sure he could ask Mike what car he drove, what clothes brand he wore, and Mike would tell him. John, however, said enough that made him appear approachable and interesting (which he was) but it was the broad stokes. Nothing specific or identifiable. He had a sister, some form of parental figure, but after that it was lost. It was purposeful, all of it, from the jumpers he wore to the work he did. It all acted as a wall against the outside world. Sherlock scuffed his foot against the soft ground in frustration. He wished John would trust him more, but somehow knew that would never happen. He couldn't let John get close enough, so would John let him? John was a puzzle, not one that necessarily needed to be solved, but one that he wanted to see the full picture of. One that he wanted to understand, yet Sherlock knew John would never allow that. At least not for a while.

He watched John catch the ball, Greg and Mike cheering next to him as John did what Sherlock assumed to be the right thing. He was fast, admirably so, the muscles in his legs contracting and releasing quickly, bulging from his thighs. Another aspect of John that seemed bemuse Sherlock – he wanted to watch him all the time, as if studying him intensely would unlock something to Sherlock that would otherwise be lost. When John wasn't looking, Sherlock would watch him work. There was no particular reason, but he was just pleasant to look at. It was the small details that interested him most, the small furrow of John's brows, the way he licked his lips when confused, the way he would re-read what he'd written every 90 seconds, nodding to himself as he did.

It wasn't attraction. He was sure of this. His entire life, Sherlock had been taught that homosexuality, in any form, was wrong. In mass, at Sunday School, he was told by the Father that even thinking in a homosexual way was wrong because God could read his thoughts. Of course, Sherlock knew that there was no God, that the religion he was bought up under was more of a cult used to control people rather than a house of an omnipotent being. But even then, small increments of the preachers' teachings would somehow infiltrate his brain, poisoning it black with its words. That didn't negate that fact that he simply found John interesting.

And yet, he couldn't help but think back to the night in the field, when they were both hazed with drunkenness and fueled by something else that they almost slept together. Was that attraction? Sherlock simply concluded that he wanted to know John better, so much so he was willing to have sex with him. It would help understand him somehow. He was certain that it wasn't just lust. The alcohol had clouded the memory, but he remembered what the said to John after. And he meant it. But far as he was aware, sex was left to less intelligent people – Sherlock believed that he didn't have the space in his brain to be turned on. And yet, the of course rang in his ears.

"Good play, John!" Mike called next to him. The whistle had been blown for half time and John was walking from his corner, passed them and towards the hut. The man had stuck his hand up to wave in response, a sheepish grin on his face. Sherlock noticed how John's gaze seemed to be meeting his.

A moment, passed, the pitch emptying of people in kit. Sherlock looked at the men next to him. A joke had passed between them and now they were looking to Sherlock with small smile on their mouth.
"He's playing well, isn't he." Mike said, nodding towards the pitch. Greg said something about tactical play (Sherlock was sure the words Greg was using were not actually English) before Mike said something to him.
"Pardon, Mike." Sherlock responded, his brain not quite catching up with the information.
"I said 'what do you think about the game?'" Sherlock paused, squinting at the grey sky above before looking back to Mike.
"It's very...yes."
"Very yes?" Mike replied, clearly humoured.
"I don't really understand what is going on, I won't lie to you." He heard Greg laugh. "But as long as John's team wins."
"Then why do you come?" Greg asked and Sherlock shrugged.
"I'm John's friend and it'd be rude not to." He saw Greg raise an eyebrow.
"Friends, eh?" Greg teased.
"Greg leave it." Mike cut, shoving his shoulder. "Now is not the time."
"Shut up Michael." There was a pause. "What's going on between you and John, Sherlock?"

The question floored him, as vivid memories from Brighton and the field and nights spent in their dorm room laughing together, inches away from each other's face, the room warm with their breaths and something else. What is going on? Friendship? More than friendship? But the words from his upbringing seemed to scream no. A simple question, less than 10 words, and suddenly years of suppression or ignorance or both seemed to crash down on him. He swallowed firmly, rebuilding the wall in his mind until he could steady his voice enough.

"John and I are just friends, Gavin, as I'm sure John himself has told you before. It's almost perverted that you've created this fantasy in your head that John and I are secretly together. I suppose you imagine that we disappear to our room at allocated times to have sexual intercourse and then deny everything. This isn't gossip, Gavin, it is real life, and your hyper fixation on John and I's relationship is odd at best and truly disturbing when I really think about it. So, try and worry about your own lack of sex life, because no one believes you went and fucked your neighbour, instead of forcing your sexual frustration onto others." There was silence and Sherlock sighed. Greg muttered something incoherent to Sherlock, with Mike calling Greg a name, but his eyes were burning so badly that he could not listen, his head filled with angry words he truly wanted to say. He felt his vision grow cloudy just as John walked onto the pitch, who waved to him, whom he smiled to in response, before staring off into the distance.