The One Next Door

Why Must Everyone be So...Right?

So, while Molly went into her apartment, Sherlock and John were left soggy and dripping back up to their apartments to change.
"That was worth it though." John decided.
"Ya, I never thought I could ever beat you in a water war." Sherlock agreed.
"You didn't beat me!" John insisted.
"Yes I did, I got you in the water first!" Sherlock defended.
"But it ended with me holding you under. There was no way you would've survived that if Molly hadn't come." John insisted proudly.
"Are you saying you were going to drown me?" Sherlock asked.
"It's tempting." John admitted. Sherlock just punched John lightly in the arm, trying to egg him on to a land battle.
"Well, maybe you did beat me in the water, but on land, this is my turf." Sherlock decided.
"Sherlock, you're asking to get beat up." John insisted.
"Maybe I am." Sherlock shrugged. John pushed Sherlock a little bit, so that the idiot stumbled over his feet, but regained his stance, bouncing from foot to foot with his fists up.
"You're pathetic." John decided.
"I took ballet; I'm more graceful than you could ever..." Sherlock's sentence was cut off when John ran shoulder first into him, slamming Sherlock up against the wall with a hand around his throat.
"Well, there's a reason I quit." Sherlock admitted, coughing a little bit. John just smiled, his beautiful face, with water droplets dripping from the end of his hair, so close....
"Admit it, I beat you in water and on land." John insisted.
"Let me paint you." Sherlock decided.
"What?" John asked, looking kind of taken aback. Sherlock took this opportunity to duck under John's choke hold and ran into him, sending the smaller man sprawling back to the opposite wall. This time Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's throat and held his shoulder to the wall.
"I want to paint you, as I said; you've got a very paintable face." Sherlock said breathlessly.
"You just want an excuse to stare at me for an hour." John decided.
"I could do that anytime I want, just get some good binoculars." Sherlock shrugged.
"Is it going to be a portrait, or are you going to go all Greek on me, put me in a toga or something?" John asked.
"Portrait." Sherlock insisted, releasing John so that they could have a normal conversation. Besides, if Mrs. Turner came bustling out of her apartment, she would've had a heart attack.
"You're a nerd." John decided.
"You're the one that hangs out with me." Sherlock defended.
"It's not like I want to, you follow me around." John snapped.
"Says the man that was on my counter this morning." Sherlock insisted.
"Says that man that used the microwave to creep on me." John pointed out.
"That was a misunderstanding okay, and I'm not the only one in the wrong here. You could've most certainly turned around if you didn't want me to look." Sherlock snapped.
"No, I most certainly wanted you to; I'd love to have your opinion on my six pack." John agreed.
"You don't have a six pack." Sherlock pointed out.
"And you would know, wouldn't you?" John laughed.
"I suppose I would, yes." Sherlock agreed.
"I'm sure you'd love to check to make sure." John insisted.
"Get in your apartment Watson; I don't want to talk to you anymore." Sherlock decided.
"Poor little Sherlock, afraid of his feelings..." John sighed, prancing to his door and unlocking it.
"I DON'T LOVE YOU!" Sherlock yelled, right as John disappeared into his apartment. So Sherlock was left standing there in defeat, not sure whether he should storm in and make sure John understood that there was nothing between them, or just drop it and retreat back to his apartment. Because maybe Sherlock did like him, it didn't matter; John would never be allowed to know, ever. It was like the world's biggest secret right now, and no one, not even Molly, was allowed to know. So Sherlock unlocked his door and walked into his apartment, hanging his soggy trench coat over the heating vent to dry and changing his sopping clothes into fresh dry ones. He didn't bother to dry his hair, besides, he liked his curly hair when it was wet, and he could only hope that John did too. Since Sherlock's drier was the crappiest thing and it smelled like dead mice (he was too lazy to make sure it was clean) so he brought his wet clothes down to Molly's, who took on the motherly role of laundry girl.
"Is John bringing his down?" she asked as Sherlock walked over to her small laundry room.
"I don't think so." Sherlock admitted. It wasn't much, just a small washer and dryer in the corner of the guest bathroom, but it was a lot better than trucking down all of those steps to use the creepy quarter washing machines in the basement. Sherlock heard that once someone was eaten alive by rats down there. Very believable, of course.
"So, I heard some yelling up there, what's going on with you and John?" Molly asked.
"Oh, he's just being unreasonable." Sherlock sighed.
"Why?" Molly asked with a laugh.
"Well, he claims that I'm totally in love with him, and I insist that I'm not." Sherlock shrugged.
"And are you totally in love with him?" Molly asked.
"Don't be stupid Molly, of course I'm not in love with him, he's a moron." Sherlock insisted.
"You said that when you met him, you said you'd never be friends, and now here you are, wrestling in fountains together." Molly sighed.
"I was trying to drown him." Sherlock defended.
"Funny, because it seemed to me like he was about to drown you." Molly pointed out.
"I was just playing weak, and when he let his guard down I was going to get him." Sherlock shrugged.
"Sure." Molly agreed, dumping some laundry detergent into the washer and dumping all of Sherlock's wet clothes in.
"You don't have to wash them." Sherlock insisted.
"Sherlock, I don't even want to know how many birds poop in that fountain." Molly insisted, shivering a little bit and closing the lid.
"True, I guess." Sherlock shrugged.
"So, do you think John likes you?" Molly asked.
"Why in the world would John like me?" Sherlock asked with a laugh.
"Well, I don't know, you've got a lot to offer, and you're pretty attractive." Molly shrugged.
"No, John can't like me, he's straight." Sherlock insisted.
"There you go assuming things again. He might not be." Molly pointed out.
"Molly, he said that he had a line of girls waiting for him." Sherlock defended.
"He could be bisexual." Molly suggested.
"He's not bisexual." Sherlock decided.
"Assuming..." Molly pointed out. Sherlock just frowned, the gears in his head turning. There was no chance, was there?
"Well, I'm going to paint him." Sherlock decided.
"You are, are you?" Molly asked in an amused voice.
"I haven't done any portraits in a while, and he's got a very paintable face." Sherlock shrugged.
"By paintable you mean attractive." Molly pointed out.
"No, I don't mean...attractive, I simply mean that his type of complexion would like nice eternalized on canvas." Sherlock decided.
"So you want a picture of John in your room?" Molly asked.
"No, that's creepy." Sherlock pointed out.
"A portrait, or something more Greek?" Molly asked with a laugh.
"John asked that too, and no, I'm a little bit short on togas and crowns." Sherlock snapped.
"Oh, because I was thinking more...nothing." Molly shrugged, blushing a little bit.
"MOLLY!" Sherlock yelled, taking a step back in disgust.
"Hey, it was just a question; I know you're not actually going to paint him like that." Molly insisted.
"No, I would never, that is obscene." Sherlock defended.
"So John suggested that too?" Molly asked with a laugh. Sherlock didn't answer; the answer to that question was a little bit too uncomfortable for him.
"Judging by your silence, the answer is yes." Molly guessed.
"Obviously he wasn't thinking along the same lines. He probably wanted a toga and bulging God like muscles." Sherlock insisted.
"I'm sure you'd love it if he had God like muscles." Molly guessed.
"That's gross. Arms shouldn't be able to move on their own, they shouldn't be all lumpy." Sherlock insisted.
"Ya, I agree." Molly sighed.
"Molly you go to the gym like, every other day to go guy hunting." Sherlock insisted.
"You come with me half the time!" Molly agreed.
"It's not like I'm looking at the weird lumpy armed ones." Sherlock insisted.
"Neither am I." Molly defended.
"Fair enough." Sherlock sighed.
"So, when is this painting thing happening?" Molly asked.
"Not sure, I'll need to get the supplies of course, I'm running out of gold, and that's primarily the color of choice." Sherlock decided.
"Why gold?" Molly asked.
"His hair is golden." Sherlock pointed out.
"I'd go for blonde, but golden, that's a lot more romantic." Molly laughed.
"Shush Molly, come on." Sherlock snapped.
"Sherlock, I've known you forever, I know when there's someone right for you, and I can tell when you've got a little crush." Molly pointed out.
"I don't love him, I don't have a 'little crush' on him, I don't look at him romantically, he's a friend, that's all, and I don't see why everyone is so convinced that it's anything else." Sherlock defended.
"Fair enough, I'm sorry." Molly sighed.
"Thank you." Sherlock agreed. "Now I'm going to go back to my flat and check my paint levels, thank you." Sherlock decided.
"Your welcome." Molly agreed. So Sherlock gave her a nod and left, going over to his apartment and opening the drawer he kept all of his paint in. Yes, he was running out of gold and red, two colors he might need while trying to paint John's beautiful face. It was only going to be too perfect, John was right, it's an excuse to stare at him for hours, to fall even more in love with his perfect face. But of course, if he showed any sign of emotion, even the slightest blink when they came too close, Molly and John and Sarah would all be jumping on him, insisting that he was in love, when of course, he was. But they could never know that. The amount of abuse he gets now, with them just theorizing, imagine that torment he would receive if he had made a move, and failed. What if he tried to kiss John, tried to admit his feelings, and John pushed him away? Then the truth would get out and the entire coffee shop would know what a gay creep he was, and John wouldn't talk to him again, and Molly might not even talk to him since he spent too much time denying everything, it would be a mess. So Sherlock settled with the things he could fix, the things that he could get, more paint. So he collected most of his remaining cash and trotted on down to the art shop, browsing for as long as he dared and purchasing gold and red, just so that if he had to paint John's lips he'd be prepared. So he returned with two dollars left (paint was surprisingly expensive) and walked back up to his house triumphantly. What would he do when he was done? Live with a painting of John sitting in his living room? Maybe it would be a present, or he could sell it to his neighbor for some cash. That would be nice. Well, Christmas was coming up, so maybe he could just give it to John as a present, or to Molly. Or Mrs. Turner. Either way, Sherlock wasn't going to keep something so creepy in his living room. The night was kind of lonely to be honest, Molly only stopped by once, but that was only to drop off his clean laundry (which now lost their manly odor and smelled like lilacs, Sherlock didn't really mind) and John didn't bother to turn up. So Sherlock just went through his painting supplies, kind of excited but also kind of nervous to paint John. What was he expecting, a perfect self-portrait, as if in a photograph? But Sherlock never really painted, it was always his soul that did the heavy lifting, so what if he accidently paints John like he saw him? Beautiful, glowing, lips so perfect and so kissable, what if he actually painted the two of them kissing? Sherlock's heart gave a nervous little twitch, and he set his paintbrushes back down into the little mason jar. But of course, that wasn't going to happen, Sherlock would be mindful, if he found himself starting to paint another person, he would stop immediately, claim the painting needed to dry or something, and somehow manage to turn the person into a tree or a house in the background or something. John wouldn't find out, of course he wouldn't. There was no possible way John figured out Sherlock's feelings because he wouldn't act upon them, ever. The more John pestered him, the more Sherlock was going to deny it, and never would he ever kiss John, or give him even the slightest of hints, because that might ruin their friendship forever. Sherlock was sailing over a roaring ocean in a tiny glass boat, any elongated stare, or brush of the hands, or even a blush when John smiled, that would be a new crack. And eventually, all of the cracks were going to add together and send Sherlock to a watery grave.

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