The One Next Door

The Talkative Pizza Man

                  

So, when Sherlock got home, he grabbed the check, and headed off with a little spring in his step. First he went to the bank, getting cash for the check and grabbing a strawberry lollipop on his way out. Then he went to the grocery store, practically prancing around the isles and trying to see what he would need the most. Sherlock started with a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and some jelly, milk, juice, more cereal, frozen chicken nuggets (because why not), some pasta, and a jar of canned tomato sauce. Then he grabbed some cookies and chips just so that he didn't feel like a total loser. Surprisingly that didn't amount to more than thirty dollars, so he threw in a Snickers bar on the cash register line as a little grocery shopping reward. So, with four bags in his hands, he trudged all the way to his apartment building, lugging the load up the stairs and knocking on Molly's door. There was some music playing from inside, but when Molly opened the door, Sherlock held up his bags triumphantly, did his best ballet twirl, and disappeared inside his own apartment.
"Good for you Sherlock!" Molly called after him, and shut her door as well. So he unloaded the stuff, put his excess money in the top drawer of his dresser, and started on his Snickers bar. What should he eat first? Sherlock decided to just stick with a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the most cooking he's done in a while, and munched on that with a glass of milk. It was very satisfying. He watched some TV, and, knowing that he had nothing to do that evening since Molly was leaving, decided to get started on the ginormous lump of clay that sat in the middle of the floor. He looked at it from all angles, laying on the floor for a worm's eye view, standing on the counter to get a bird's eye view, and going around and around like some sort of fashion critic. In the end he decided to make it as abstract as possible, just punch holes in it, smear it all up, carve rivets and slashes, and then splash it with paint. It shall represent the human soul as it goes through life, first the finger marks for childhood influences, slashes and cuts for maturity and heart break, and paint and color for stress and aging processes, as life starts to get more entertaining and more colorful. So he grabbed his plastic apron, plastic gloves, plastic hairnet, and set to work. After a while, he started to curve the edges, make the ginormous cube more of a circular, uneven sort of blob. Therefore he was a mess, the excess clay sticking to his gloves, splashing onto his apron, getting all over the plastic sheets he had laid across the floor. Thank god for thin, cheap plastic, or Moran would literally have his head. When Sherlock was just starting to feel his arms start to ache from this poor excuse for exercise, there was a knock on the door. Suddenly he was hopeful, maybe Molly had come back, and wanted to see how much food he had bought. Or maybe she had brought dinner, which he had actually forgotten about, to be honest.
"Give me a second!" Sherlock called, brushing off what clay he could and lumbering over to the door. When he opened it though, it wasn't Molly, it was John. Sherlock's' face immediately dropped, and frowned at his neighbor.
"Tell me our mail got mixed up or something, because it would seem that you're voluntarily knocking on my door." Sherlock decided.
"Kind of a bad night to be alone, don't you think?" he shrugged.
"I'm fine alone." Sherlock decided. John held up a pizza box, still warm and smelling fantastic.
"I brought pizza." He pointed out.
"D*mn you Watson." Sherlock groaned, but opened the door wider.
"What are you doing?" John asked.
"I'm doing art, you wouldn't understand." Sherlock snapped.
"I'm not an idiot, and it doesn't take a genius to understand art." John defended.
"I'm not interested in what you have to say, I want your food." Sherlock decided, tearing off his hat, gloves, and apron and throwing them into a little pile on the floor.
"Always good to feel appreciated." John muttered, but opened the box for Sherlock to take the first piece.
"I see some shopping bags; I assume you went to the grocery store?" John guessed, taking a piece for himself. Sherlock nodded, pulling out the bag of chicken nuggets excitedly.
"It's a thirty count bag, that's like, three meals!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Very fancy." John laughed. Sherlock jumped on the counter next to the pizza box, dangling his feet like a little kid.
"I wonder how Molly's doing." He muttered.
"She'll be fine, she's a grown up, she knows how to handle herself." John decided.
"Are you suggesting that I don't?" Sherlock asked.
"No, nothing like that." John shrugged.
"Well, you'd be right." Sherlock admitted, and John just laughed.
"Not many people will admit that." John decided.
"Yes well, I'm not most people." Sherlock admitted.
"No, you're not." John agreed. Sherlock already polished off his first piece of pizza, reaching for a second.
"So, what possessed you to come over to my place, of all places?" Sherlock asked.
"Like I said, I didn't really feel like being alone, and since I knew that you'd have nothing going on, I assumed that you'd let me in." John shrugged.
"What makes you think that I have nothing going on?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, you don't seem like a busy guy." John guessed.
"You're saying I only have one friend?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, I mean, ya." John admitted.
"Well, you're right. But still, I could have a girlfriend, I could have some family thing going on, some work obligation, maybe I wanted to go out and have a drink by myself." Sherlock defended.
"Yet here you are, sitting on your counter and eating my pizza." John pointed out.
"Still, don't assume things." Sherlock snapped.
"I don't really see you as someone that has many family obligations, or you know, girlfriends." John shrugged.
"Are you saying I've never had a girlfriend?" Sherlock asked. He'd be right, but John didn't need to know that.
"I didn't say that, you would've mentioned her though, so I just thought that you were single." John insisted.
"What's it to you?" Sherlock asked.
"Well I don't want to be taking your time if you could spend it with a girlfriend of some sort." John shrugged.
"Of some sort?" Sherlock asked.
"This really feels like an interrogation." John decided.
"If I actually had a girlfriend, she wouldn't be 'of some sort', I'm sure she'd be mentally stable, and pretty, and nice." Sherlock insisted.
"I know, I didn't say that she would!" John insisted, raising his hands defensively.
"Okay, okay." Sherlock sighed, "What about you, you're unattached, right?"
"Quite unattached, yes." John agreed.
"That's a good thing." Sherlock decided.
"Why is it a good thing?" John asked.
"I can eat your pizza." Sherlock pointed out, taking his third piece.
"Fair point." John agreed with a laugh, taking another piece as well.
"So, do you just spend your days with your dog, or what do you do?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, well, usually I'll take a walk, or I'll go shopping, or go out for coffee, which is a daily thing, but other times I'll just stay home, watch some TV, snuggle up with Dudley." John shrugged.
"You like to snuggle?" Sherlock asked.
"Everyone likes to snuggle." John insisted.
"Very manly." Sherlock decided.
"What, you don't?" John asked.
"I didn't say that." Sherlock assured.
"You are like, the weirdest person I've ever met." John decided.
"Well, would you rather me hate you?" Sherlock asked.
"No, I like it better when you'll talk to me." John decided.
"I still hate you, to be clear." Sherlock insisted.
"Oh, I know." John sighed, but he seemed to find that more amusing than anything. They ate the rest of their pizza in a semi-comfortable silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't totally stress free. Sherlock was kind of wondering what their next conversation was going to be about, and if he was coming off too likable. Should he be more hateful, would John actually think that Sherlock liked him? Preposterous!
"So, what is that big gray, thing, in the middle of your floor?" John asked.
"Don't talk about my couch like that, it has feelings too." Sherlock snapped.
"I meant that." John insisted, pointing to the clay.
"I know what you mean, chill. That's my latest art project, it's clay." Sherlock insisted.
"Very interesting." John decided.
"Not really, but it will be." Sherlock assured.
"I'm sure it will. There's a lot of very interesting paintings around here." John decided, looking at one Sherlock sketched of a moving taxi. It was very shaded and blurry and downright pathetic, but John seemed mystified by it. Sherlock sighed, the pizza box now empty, and leaned on the counter with his face in his hands, watching John look at his artwork. There was a feeling of pride in his stomach, something he didn't usually feel when people looked at his art, but John's impressed little noises and smile made Sherlock feel like he had actually accomplished something. Maybe he was just being stupid, but for once he felt appreciated.
"So, what's your favorite thing to paint?" John asked as he looked at some pictures of flowers that Sherlock had drawn.
"Abstract, usually. I like taking things and distorting them to not what the human eye sees, but what the human soul feels." Sherlock said dramatically.
"Very poetic." John decided. "Do you do portraits and stuff?"
"Not very often, I have to find a good subject first." Sherlock shrugged.
"What's a good subject, in your mind?" John asked.
"Well, I'm not sure. You're a very paintable person." Sherlock decided.
"Is that a good thing?" John asked with a laugh. Sherlock smiled, his mouth partially covered by his hand, but he was sure John got the gist.
"Ya, I think it's a good thing." he decided.
"Have you ever tried to paint yourself?" John asked.
"Are you saying I'm a paintable person as well?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, if someone was good with a brush." John decided.
"You're saying I'm ugly?" Sherlock asked, kind of offended.
"No, of course not, but it would take someone very talented to get all the good parts of your face, they can't just paint a lumpy potato to be your face and call that art." John insisted.
"What's a good part of my face?" Sherlock asked with a small laugh.
"How am I supposed to know?" John defended.
"You just said someone needs to get the good parts of my face, what would you describe that as?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know, I don't...alright, your cheekbones are a nice feature, I guess." John decided.
"And your eyebrows frame your face nicely." Sherlock agreed.
"Your eyes, they'd need to get the green color." John muttered.
"And the color of your hair when the sun hits it." Sherlock decided.
"And the sort of pale glow of your skin." John guessed.
"And of course they'd have to get your nose in the right place, right above the bow of your lips." Sherlock decided.
"Do you spend a lot of time focused on my lips?" John teased.
"Of course I don't, idiot, we were complementing each other, I think." Sherlock decided.
"You were complementing me? I thought I was a miserable maggot of a person." John pointed out.
"And I thought I was a stupid prick that mistook you for a woman." Sherlock defended.
"Are we good then?" John asked.
"No, of course not, you're still a rubbish neighbor." Sherlock insisted, and John laughed.
"A rubbish neighbor whose hair glows in the sunlight." John said dramatically.
"I had to go with that, if you weren't so bloody ugly it would've been easier!" Sherlock insisted.
"Are you sure, because my eyebrows say differently." John defended.
"I'm sorry, was my glowing skin distracting your thought process?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm surprised you can come up with a comeback when you're so focused on my lips." John decided.
"I hate you." Sherlock decided.
"I hate you too." John agreed, but he was still smiling. Sherlock didn't know what to say, the pizza was gone and he wasn't really seeing the real purpose of John being in his flat.
"If you don't have anything else to insult, the door's over there." Sherlock decided.
"I've only just gotten started." John insisted.
"I could always just walk into your flat and call your lifestyle stupid." Sherlock insisted.
"I never said your art was stupid!" John defended.
"You have an ugly, fat dog." Sherlock decided.
"He's got puppy fat, and your art is beautiful, I was complementing it!" John insisted.
"You're ugly and fat too." Sherlock added.
"You're the one who's excited about frozen chicken nuggets!" John debated.
"Please leave my apartment." Sherlock decided.
"I don't want to leave your apartment." John insisted.
"Well, I'm telling you that you have to, or I'll go over there and drown your ugly dog in the bathtub." Sherlock warned.
"I'll have you sent to prison." John insisted.
"Will you visit me?" Sherlock asked.
"And I'll bring frozen chicken nuggets." John added.
"Won't be so bad." Sherlock decided.
"Good then?" John asked.
"Leave." Sherlock insisted.
"Alright, I'm going." John groaned, laughing a little bit, as if he thought this were all some sort of joke.
"Goodbye John." Sherlock decided, handing him the empty pizza box.
"Goodnight Sherlock, see you bright and early tomorrow morning." John decided.
"I suppose you will." Sherlock agreed. And with that, John walked out the door, closing it lightly behind him. Sherlock could only think one thing; oh no. Oh no, John had called his eyes pretty, oh no, John's smile was the most adorable thing Sherlock has ever seen, oh no, John gave him pizza and complemented his art and laughed at his jokes, oh no, he was in love. Sherlock leaned against the counter, catching his breath the best he could, blinking rapidly and telling himself that it must just be the good day he's had. It wasn't John that was making him feel this weightless; it could never be that jerk that was making his heart beat faster and faster, it was impossible for that man to make Sherlock feel as though he might explode with feelings. It couldn't be, it simply couldn't be, not only because John was most certainly straighter than a wooden ruler, but the fact that Sherlock had spent so much time insisting that he hated John in front of everyone, if he tells anyone that he likes him, it would be so embarrassing. Everyone had assumed that Sherlock liked John from the start, if he actually did like him, it would be fitting into the stereotype that Sherlock so desperately avoided, he didn't want to be that gay guy who fell in love with any man that walked across his path. But as Sherlock got ready for bed and stared up at the dark ceiling, he decided that as much of a jerk as John previously was, that night had almost been magical. Of course, they insulted each other, but John had told him that his cheekbones were pretty, and that his eyes were full of color, and that his skin glowed... and it had taken some profiling to realize just how attractive John was. His beautiful chocolate eyes, his perfectly curved lips, his symmetrical nose, he was pretty much every girl's dream, and that was precisely the issue. Even if Sherlock did admit to himself his feelings, even if he told other people, John would never like him back! John thought Sherlock was straight, and John himself was most definitely straight, and no cheekbones or glow was ever going to be able to change that about him. Sherlock snuggled deeper into his covers, staring at the ceiling and feeling defeated. More lost and hopeless than he had possibly ever felt, not just because he had feelings, but because the first real feelings he actually had were never going to be returned. John was probably all snuggled up in his bed as well, patting his dog goodnight and thinking about some girl he had seen at the coffee shop, he might even be thinking about Molly, but there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that the last thing that would ever be on John's mind was him.

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