A Study At Bullimore

13

The following week, John had training every night. There was a match the following Friday, and it seemed as though John was going to be needed on the field after all as one of the men had broken their wrist at training the week before. He didn't particularly mind the training; it was nice to be outside and moving around. John hadn't played proper rugby in years, his technique a little rusty, but he was pleased to feel himself becoming more and more advanced in his movement. However, by night 3, John's entire body was aching and sore. Twice, he missed dinner after falling asleep at his desk whilst revising after training. It seemed that John was in a comatose state, about to pass out at any moment.

It was on the Thursday, the night before match day, where John felt the worst. His body hurt to move and his brain was cloudy from a lack a sleep. He could barely form coherent sentences and answered most questions with a low huff, his body and brain reduced to nothing more than a head of jelly. That evening, Sherlock decided to intervene.

John had just come in from training, holding his muddy boots by the laces. Sherlock had asked him if he was okay and John didn't answer. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees.

"John." Sherlock said quietly, placing the book down. "Are you okay?" There was a pause and a long inhale from John. "John?"
"Yeah, I'm just tired."
"Why don't you go to sleep?" This made John huff out a laugh loose laugh.
"I've got work to do for tomorrow." He replied, sighing heavily, running his hands through his hair.
"Is there much?" Sherlock asked after a moment. John shook his head slowly.
"No." He replied, his voice breaking suddenly. Sherlock furrowed his brow, unsure of quite what to do.
"I could do it if you would like me to." Sherlock replied. John looked up at him, his eyes slightly red with blurry tears.
"It's the chemistry mock exam." John responded. "I need to finish it."
"That's fine. I've done it already." He said, moving off his bed and towards John's desk, filtering through the papers on his desk.
"But I need to do it." John replied, his voice strained.
"John, this won't reflect your abilities if you do it now. Currently, you need to sleep." John knew Sherlock was right, but something was stopping him from letting him help.
"What if Huchoo realises it isn't my work?" John asked with a heavy sigh. Sherlock produced the booklet from John's desk, flipping through the pages.
"You've done over half of it, John. It's mostly your work. Please let me do this." There was a pause from John, who was aggressively running his hand through his hair. Another interesting nervous tic, Sherlock noted. Sherlock did not wait for a response, and instead put the paper on his desk. John lay back on his bed with a loud sigh.
"John."
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"Would you like me to make you some tea?" This made John laugh, a little stronger this time. He watched John push himself by his elbows, bleary eyed.
"Yes. Please. I'd appreciate it." So, Sherlock stood up, slipped on his slippers, and walked downstairs, leaving John alone.

There was seemingly no one downstairs, which put Sherlock slightly at ease. He didn't exactly dislike his peers, other than Anderson, but they all lacked intelligence in such a way that made everyday conversation exhausting. Sherlock didn't have time to waste on pleasantries, which made his friendship with John so much easier. John seemed to also believe that small talk was pointless, which meant Sherlock could sit in his much-needed silence for however long he needed without being disturbed. He filled the kettle, the water splashing against the sleeves of his dressing gown as put the kettle on its base to boil. Whilst he waited, Sherlock paced back and forth, rolling his robe sleeves up, the dry sound of his slippers against the wood releasing some of the tension in his head.

Sherlock did not necessary struggle with human emotions, but he simply found them frustrating. They took too much time to deal with – Sherlock could be doing so much more if his own or others emotions did not exist. Sherlock had mastered the art of blurring his own emotions, allowing the few that they were to settle somewhere in his stomach. This allowed the daytime to be almost emotionless, or at least more controlled. This, of course, meant at night that the daytime emotions suddenly surfaced. The suppressed feelings rearing their head, demanding to be noticed.

Dealing with others' emotions, of course, was completely different. Sherlock cared little for how anyone else felt, other than if it directly affected him in getting what he wanted. John, however, was an exception to this, and every other, it seemed. John's emotions seemed to physically impact Sherlock. Somehow, John's feelings towards him; from his tone of voice to the words his chose to use had a huge effect on him. It was rather distressing, having some form of reliance on John's external positivity to bring Sherlock himself some emotional stability. This had never happened before and now that John was upset, Sherlock felt knotted, unsure of what to do. John was complicated, Sherlock knew there were more emotional layers to him, hence the use of the 'external positivity' that Sherlock had given him. There was a constant layer of anxiety underneath is positive base line which stemmed from somewhere. Sherlock wanted to know what that was.

"Sherlock." Said a voice from the doorway behind him. Sherlock turned around, putting his hands behind his back.
"Anderson." He replied in an exaggeratedly tired manner, walking back over to the kettle.
"What are you doing down here?" Anderson asked, walking further into the room. He wore his dressing gown too, the belt trailing on the wooden floor.
"I'm getting a drink." Sherlock gestured to the kettle.
"Would you make me one."
"No." Sherlock got a cup out of the cupboard, put a teabag in and poured the ready-boiled water in the mug. Anderson sat in the highbacked armchair closest to the fireplace. It was empty and cold but the smell of burnt wood was still strong.
"Are you mean to me on purpose?"
"Yes." Sherlock pressed out the tea from the bag before putting it in the bin. He didn't have time for this chit chat with Anderson. John was upstairs rather upset, and Anderson was the last person Sherlock wanted to speak to. He frustrated Sherlock in a way that made Sherlock want to punch him.
"I don't understand why. I've never done anything to you." This made Sherlock groan. "Well?"
"I don't owe you any form of explanation, Phillip." Sherlock spat, pouring milk into the mug. Anderson laughed emptily, shaking his head at Sherlock. "Leave me alone, Anderson." Suddenly, Anderson got up and stood in front of the doorway. Sherlock had already began walking towards the doorway and had to stop quickly, the tea sloshing over the cup edge and burning his right arm. Both he and Anderson glancing down.
"You might want to sort that out." Anderson's eyes on his arms. Sherlock dared not look down.
"I am fine. Now move." Anderson hesitated for another moment, his eyes still on his arm. Sherlock balled his hand into a fist in frustration. "Anderson." His eyeline was making him uncomfortable. Finally, he moved out the way, standing next to Sherlock.
"I'd roll down my sleeves," he remarked, "if I were you." Sherlock had to resist punching him and instead took a deep breath.
"Do you exist solely antagonise me, or do you have other purposes?" Anderson said nothing. He turned around to meet Anderson's eyes. "I didn't think so. Let me be. I am none of your concern." Phillip dropped his gaze and Sherlock turned quickly to go upstairs.

__

Inside the dorm room, it seemed as though John had improved. He was in his pyjamas, in bed and reading a poetry book. Sherlock handed John his tea before sitting on his bed, ruffling his hair aggressively. He didn't mean for Anderson to get under his skin, but something about him made Sherlock instinctively angry. He ran his hand over the red patch on his arm, the skin warm and tight.

"What did you do to your arm?" John asked as he sipped his tea. Sherlock kicked off his slippers under his bed.
"Anderson. I burnt it on the tea." Sherlock replied, loosely gesturing to John's mug which he was holding.
"I see." Sherlock knew that that was not what John was talking about. "You shouldn't let him to get to you."
"Well yes. I know." Sherlock paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his hand.
"Sherlock."
"What John?" Sherlock turned violently towards John, which made him flinch. "Yes?"
"I've got the match tomorrow. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come." Sherlock stopped pacing, running his hand through his curls.
"Yes, alright. If you want." He sat down and sighed.
"Thank you for the tea." John said, placing his tea down on the nightstand and leaning to turn off the lamp.
"It's no problem, John." Sherlock replied, walking towards his desk to finish John's paper. John turned off his lamp, leaving Sherlock's brain rattling nosily in the dark.