His Greatest Adventure

A Game of Deduction

He slipped into the chair next to John and smiled lightly.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said in a smooth voice, making the hair on the back of John's neck stand up straight. He extended his right hand, and John quickly shook it.

"Watson. Uh, John Watson."

Once the lesson began, Sherlock fell into a sort of trance. Staring straight ahead with his hands steepled beneath his chin, he almost looked as if he already knew all the information being fed to him. Occasionally he would nod slightly, a grin spreading across his lips. His long fingers tapped against each other, pleading John to move closer.

At one point, the professor pointed to John, catching him off guard.

"Watson! Symptoms of retinol excess?"

Sherlock's head turned to face John, and he could feel the taller man's eyes skimming over his face.

"Uh..." John began, searching his brain for the answer. "Bone... fragility, weakness, and uh, nausea?"

The professor nodded and turned away, but Sherlock did not. John met his eyes.

"Interesting," Sherlock spoke quietly, "you knew the answer, so why did you stutter?"

John chuckled, but Sherlock's face remained curious. "Hesitation in normally complacent situations is often a sign of self consciousness or even... suicidal thoughts? I do hope you're merely uneasy around me."

John raised his eyebrows at the younger man. How do you tell someone they make your heart flutter? Sherlock's effortless tone and know-it-all attitude gave John some feeling in his stomach, one he couldn't place. He didn't know what to say to Sherlock's confusing statements, so he merely shrugged sheepishly.

Sherlock turned away, giving his older a side-eye every so often. John internally punched himself. He spoke to him, an actual question about John's well-being, and John shrugged! He made a mental note to throw himself off a building before the day was through.

When the class had dismissed, Sherlock stood up swiftly and exited through the door. John jumped from his seat, grabbing his bag and hurriedly following Sherlock down the road outside the building. He remained about 20 feet behind him, because he didn't want Sherlock to see the short man from biochemistry creepily following him back to his dorm.

He didn't quite know what he was doing, but he was insanely curious about Sherlock Holmes. Who was he? Why had he only noticed him a week ago? How was he so... attractive?

After about ten minutes of walking down the road, Sherlock stopped suddenly and laughed heartily to himself. Then, out loud, he said, "Following me, John Watson?"

John's heart stopped. Fuck. How the bloody hell did he see him? Sherlock turned back around and, smiling, strolled towards John.

"You're wondering how I knew? You watched me all class. Your haircut and posture say... bisexual? Or at least questioning. You have one textbook in your bag at the moment- for biochemistry, and you don't have many close friends you see on an everyday basis, because surely one of them would have pointed out the hair sticking straight up on the back of your head-" John patted the cowlick at the back of his skull at that statement- "so you're free for the rest of the day. Nowhere else to be, nobody else to see, you'd follow the man you're curious about. Easily, because you're a curious person."

John's throat was dry. He coughed, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers before looking back up into Sherlock's blazing green eyes.

"That was brilliant," he answered matter-of-factly, smiling slightly at the man before him. "And absolutely right, of course."

Sherlock grinned, looking down as he did so. "Really? You think that?" he asked softly.

John nodded. "Of course. Brilliant."

The boys walked together now, following Sherlock's original path.

"Where were you heading to?" John asked after a moment.

"Oh, nowhere in particular. I wondered how long you would follow me for."

John laughed, scratching his left eyebrow uncomfortably. "How old are you then? Nineteen?"

Sherlock nodded in response, then said, "But you're older. Twenty... three?"

Sherlock knew everything. He was a proper genius, with certainly the proper bone structure. He led John to a wooden bench in the grass next to the busy street, and sat down comfortably. The October day was warm, and John pushed the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows.

"I like to watch people," Sherlock explained, before adding, "they're all so simple. Little brains. I play a game of deduction with myself as they walk by."

He pointed to a woman standing across the road smoking a cigarette. "She's dying. She has cancer. See the pulls on her sweater? She has money to buy cigarettes, and her new watch, but doesn't bother with new clothes. So, why? She doesn't find it necessary. She has a month."

John watched the woman drop her cigarette on the ground and kill it with her shoe. Sherlock had moved onto his next victim.

"That man- down the road. No, that one. See his hair? He's just had it cut. My guess is that he's meeting someone important, because he's broken his regular routine. Not the parents of a girlfriend... no. He's gay. His new trousers are too big, but he doesn't notice, as he never usually dresses this nice. He's meeting his boyfriend's family, but he couldn't bother to get fitted properly? He doesn't love him. He's doing it for the money."

Sherlock looked to John, who was staring, shocked, at the man next to him. How in the hell did he know all this? How was he so content with his ability to read people?

John tried to watch Sherlock the way he watched others. His dark hair sat perfectly atop his head. His shirt lay across his chest... perfectly. His hands rested in his lap. Perfectly. There was nothing else to read, it was impossible.

Sherlock knew John watched him. It was just fact, and after about an hour of spending time with him, John had given up on trying to hide it.

Eventually, Sherlock announced, "And of course... the man closest to me right now. It's easy for me to read the basics... alone, clinical depression, not to flatter myself, but I'm probably the most interesting thing to happen to him in months. He keeps his feelings close to him, but if I were to see them... he's kindhearted. Brave, probably."

John didn't answer. He looked down, embarrassed, but his cheeks burned red. Sherlock thought he was brave and kind? Good god. He looked back up into Sherlock's eyes, which were quizzically searching John for a response.

"Will I see you next class?" he asked after a moment.

"Of course."