A Study At Bullimore

16

The rest of October was filled with the threat of exams and essays. Sherlock continued as if nothing had even happened, and it made John wonder if he had dreamt the entire thing. Sherlock remained civil but was slowly distancing himself from John. As everyday passed, he was coming to school less, entering the dorm room less and John realised that perhaps Sherlock needed space. So, he avoided him too, even though it hurt his feelings to think he was the cause of the upset. Sure, John didn't think that it was going to change much, but at least they could...talk about what happened. At least then they would be on the same page. At least he would know what was going on, although he thought that Sherlock didn't know either. John decided to work through it, Sherlock would talk about it if he wanted to, and the exams were more important than drama, even if John wished Sherlock would talk to him. He needed to pass, they were integral for keeping his scholarship, even so, the worry still beat at the back of his head.

It was now November, the pressure slowly mounting. However, John remained in good spirits. He was doing enough work to make him feel confident (other than in chemistry – but John didn't think he would ever be confident when doing chemistry) and he was growing closer to Mike and Greg. Since the rugby match in October, they had become a trio, sometimes a quad when Sherlock arrived, and John felt as though he could call them friends. Every morning, they would eat breakfast together and at the weekend they would go out to the local and get food and then walk back to the uni together. They would never discuss anything particularly deep and never asked about Sherlock, which John was thankful for, but their presence was enough. It wasn't clear how much either of them remembered of the after the rugby match and John didn't want to ask out of fear of humiliation. He was acutely aware that the walls in the dorms were very thin, the thought of what they heard made him want to bury himself, so he was glad they danced around it. It was a small routine that they had formed, it made John feel as though he had his own life, a feeling he had never had before.

"We're going to The Swan later, are you coming?" Greg asked over breakfast one Friday. John shook his head as he cut into the bacon on his plate. He was surprisingly tired this morning and put it down to stress.

"I've got too much chemistry to do." Mike rolled his eyes from across the table.
"You're so boring John." John kicked him gently under the table.
"So is chemistry. I just need to do the polarity and intermolecular force stuff and then I'll be able to relax." Greg smiled.

"It's okay John, you have to work hard to be that student of the week." Greg was referring to the time their history lecturer used John's Henry VII essay as an example for high quality writing and deemed him as 'student of the week.' It led to John being banter-fully mocked for the following fortnight.
"I'll come next week. I promise."

So, John left for his English lesson, his bag on his back, alone. He was naturally good at English, it came from being able to write essays very quickly without having to think much about them. He kept it to himself, but secretly John boasted the ability to write pages and pages on one line of text, analyse it until the very last full stop. It meant that most lessons John didn't need to focus particularly hard, instead he wrote things in the back of his notebook, from things that were worrying him to shitty poems or sketches of flowers and bad horses.

Today, John was preoccupied with him. With Sherlock. It was also becoming part of his routine at this point. When idle, John's mind would flicker to Sherlock. He hadn't seen him all week, and he was barely around the last Saturday. The man simply entered to pick up a small bag from under his bed, nodding briefly at John, before leaving. (That action had confused John greatly – why look to him at all if he were ignored the rest of the time?) John didn't ask Sherlock questions, he given very quickly after Sherlock would either ignore them or reply in the most brief way possible. Instead, he settled on accepting the fact that maybe their friendship had been ruined by what had happened that night in October. Maybe whatever they had was lost. It frustrated John to the point of angry tears which caused him to smother his face with his pillow so no one would hear him. He deemed it ridiculous, it was just some drama after all, but there was something else about it that set John on edge. Sherlock's sudden behaviour change was more than just down to their more-than-kiss, it was something else. However, in a move to try and settle his otherwise anxious mind, John reassured himself that he only felt this way because he cared for Sherlock. Arguably, too much. John found himself sketching spidery lines of flowers with his biro pen as he thought, glancing up to the front of the class every so often to at least look as though he were paying attention.

"John. Could you tell me how you would expand on this point?" His English lectuere said, catching John's attention. John had been in the middle of debating whether he ought to just go to Sherlock's house to see if he was okay.
"Yep. Um." John responded flatly, but internally panicked, unsure what to say. Calltullus's Plays With Human Emotion. He cleared his throat, an anxious tick, and squinted slightly. "In Catullus 85, there's the line 'I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it happening and I am being tortured.' Which shows the contrast in the human experience. The use of 'and' as a connective means that love and hate are intrinsically linked. He might be arguing that 'love' and 'hate' cannot exist without each other. Where 'love' exists, there is an opportunity to be 'tortured which, for Calltullus, ends in hate.'" He glanced down, his ears hot with embarrassment and anxiety. He had read too much into it, made it about his own feelings and although he knew only he knew this, John still wanted to be sucked into a hole.
"Thank you, John" His teacher said, nodding towards him. John smiled a small smile.

Odi et amo

John wrote into his book. I hate and I love.

He loved Sherlock. Or at least, he liked him greatly. John couldn't avoid that. He tended to ignore it, pretend as though he cared little at all. He attempted to pass it off as a feeling of friendship. But every time Sherlock was in their room, there was some kind of force. The atmosphere tense, not with hostility but with something else. John didn't know whether Sherlock felt it too, but he couldn't forget what he said.

2

But he hated Sherlock. John knew something was going on, some form of untouched anguish. His mystery was a force that both compelled John's interest and made him dislike Sherlock at the same time. The fact he wouldn't talk to John hurt him, although he was reassured slightly by Mike reminding him that Sherlock rarely spoke to anyone it did not get rid the concern that something was up. The random disappearances without explanation frustrated him and made matters worse. John found himself randomly waking to check his dorm mate's bed, which was almost always empty. Then, he would lay awake for hours, listening to the gurgling pipes and wondering where Sherlock was. Hoping that he was safe.

I hate and I love. I hate and I love. I hate and I love.