Sigma Eta

There Is A Time For Conversation

Despite Sherlock's rather active social agenda throughout the house he did seem to neglect at least two members of the house, still the only two boys who seemed to have put a wall between themselves and their new accomplice. Sebastian had taken to the boy's general satisfaction with a great scowl, and every moment of every day he looked to be physically restraining himself from breaking down into a fit of anger, kicking Sherlock Holmes and each one of his groupies out of the house for good. Greg was a silent accomplice of the President; in fact Greg was silent all together these days. He didn't seem to take to Sherlock, not even when he was directly approached. Why this could be, well John didn't have an answer. But he remembered back to when they were first introduced, when Greg had woken from his unconscious state on the porch to be met with Sherlock's eyes. It was not as much of a reawakening as it had been for John, he didn't look into those complex irises and see the problems of the world melting away. Instead Greg must have made some sort of connection between his masculine attackers and his beautiful savior, perhaps linking Sherlock's presence to the lingering pain he felt in his broken nose. It was an unjust connection, for Sherlock had been there only to diffuse the tension and heal the losers of the fight. Perhaps that was it, Greg was ashamed for having lost to three other footballers? Either way, Greg's silence was becoming more than just a bother to John, it was becoming an embarrassment. On multiple occasions Greg would leave the room as soon as Sherlock entered, and of course this reflected very badly on John. Greg was his best friend, or rather he was supposed to be, and if best friends could not support each other behind their appreciation of a new coming master, well then what did that say about them? Had John gone all of his life thinking Greg to be a much more decent and knowledgeable boy than he actually was? Perhaps he had misjudged his best friend after all of these years. For as long as Sherlock was within the house, it didn't seem wholly possible to get him alone. The boy was always stuck within a common area, never in a good position for a private conversation or a personal meeting. And while this was quite acceptable, for he was sharing his good faith for all, it was growing to be rather annoying to have to share stories that were appreciated by all ears. John was sure that other boys felt quite the same way; they must have felt the same agitation for not being able to get any more personal with Sherlock than could the living room furniture. In his eyes they were all one in the same, for he had only ever addressed them as a collective being. He knew their names before they had ever introduced themselves, though beyond that he seemed to save the rest of his powers for the group as a whole, never concentrating on each of their individual problems. It was a rather personal problem, for while John didn't yet suffer with any unsolvable life issues, he was still quite eager to express his entire story to Sherlock and to share about his past, present, and future. He wanted to be closer to Sherlock, and perhaps gain more insight into the backstory of their newly arrived friend. With a declaration of his own personal secrets, perhaps John would be offered the same respect in return? A personal conversation, a one on one interaction, could possibly bring out the answers to the questions John had been asking himself this whole time, wondering not only where Sherlock had come from but who he was, and what he was doing here in a fraternity house. When the opportunity for a personal conversation did not arrive naturally throughout a simple process of observation, John figured that he ought to just wait it out and see if he could trap Sherlock in one room, making sure that he could get the privilege of the boy's unlimited attention. It had been so long since he had felt special in the eyes of their new friend, in fact ever since Sherlock had been voted into the house, ever since he had held John's hand in a show of his fidelity, well John had felt all together meshed within the rest of the boys, a mere piece of the wider puzzle that was Sigma Eta. He was beginning to feel neglected, even if he had been one of the first to accept Sherlock into their house. Was this not his doing, was Sherlock's being here all due to John's dedication and bold actions? And yet he was being forgotten, discarded to be placed within the same category as each one of these boys, some of which don't acknowledge Sherlock as anything more than exceptional. And so, he waited. John camped himself out in one of the desks in the living room, keeping close eyes on Sherlock where he sat on one of the couches, hunched over a novel with a particular beautify of concentration. He sat with his legs folded beneath him, his socked feet protruding from below the opposite knee as he held his paperback within his lap; his head bent with a finger along his sharp jawline, eyes squinted in concentration. It was about ten thirty when John began the stakeout, choosing a desk with a view of the entire room so as to ensure that he would be the last one out. If he was correct in his assumptions about Sherlock then the boy would not go to bed until long after the rest of the brothers had faded away. He didn't seem to sleep; in fact John was almost positive that he was a nocturnal creature at heart. Why else would he take to the hallways, if not to bide his time during the early morning hours? There was not a bed for him here anyway, unless the couch suited him well. A strange boy, he was, but so perfectly appreciated. John decided to take this rather mundane waiting period as an excuse to concentrate on his school work, which had been rather neglected in the past few days of chaos. His math course was becoming especially difficult, in fact it seemed as though his grade continued to drop with every exam he received back. It was a shameful thing, really, considering that there was a grade limit on the Sigma Eta fraternity. If you were failing any of your classes you received a suspension, and if the final grade of the semester ends with a failure then you were kicked out of the house in an effort to force you to rearrange your priorities. Perhaps the creators of such a rule had designed that with the idea that the frat house would serve only as a distraction for the more important academic aspect of college, though they never seemed to take into consideration just how many impossible classes Stoke Moran had to offer. With John's major of biology he was forced to take all sorts of complicated and downright useless classes, some of which were contained within the math building and taught under the iron fist of a stern, young professor. It was as if some of those math courses were designed to make you fail, to teach discipline or something equally as pointless. Well no matter how hard John worked on his course material it never seemed to work out, his tests came back worse as the semester crawled on and nothing seemed to change. As tragic as it was, well at least it gave him a reasonable excuse to stay up all night. At least as he sat here under the small desk lamp he knew that his staying awake would not seem all together unreasonable. As each math question went by (some much longer than others, requiring mandatory snack breaks and moments to pause to reflect upon switching majors) the other members of the fraternity began to trickle out. Once eleven o'clock hit most of the athletes called it a night, trudging up the stairs to their designated room and leaving the living room just that much emptier. When midnight came some of the books were shut, and those who were studying from them decided to just give up on their aspirations of understanding. "If I don't know it by midnight I just don't know it" they'd declare, and with that say their goodnights and tremble off to bed. As each one of the boys wandered away John's attention became more and more fixated with Sherlock, each one of his nerves began to tingle with excitement as he realized that his time for conversation was drawing near. So soon now he would be lost within the gaze of Sherlock Holmes, so soon would that attention be focused on him with the same intensity and interest as it was now on that book! John grew so anxious that the math problems before him turned to mere pointless squiggles, though he could not sacrifice his secrecy to such obvious staring. If he looked so fixated then Sherlock too might get up and leave, though where he might go remains to be seen. Perhaps he would leave the house, for the first time in all that John could remember, with the distinct intention of avoiding any personal conversation. It was around one thirty when the last boy left the room, one of the older seniors who seemed to be studying for an intense chemistry exam. He left the living room with red eyes and a look of despair, carrying under his arms a textbook filled with loose leaf paper shoved within the pages, all of his notes and diagrams that he had used in his task of absorbing as much information in as quick a time as possible. Such was the struggle of academics; such was the impossibility of higher education. As soon as the room was cleared John made a point to look distracted, so as to make sure there seemed to be no correlation to his loitering and their sudden solitude. Of course he was going to have to make a move eventually, though for now he would wait one, maybe two minutes before he began to speak. For now he made it a point to keep his head down, staring at the numbers that were all beginning to blend together on the page. The homework he was doing seemed so blurred, so foreign, while the world around him seemed so clear and crisp. It was only until the smell of smoke alerted him to the outside world did he look up, a familiar scent of cigarettes that reminded him a little too much of home. When John looked up he saw that Sherlock was looking back at him, sitting on the couch with his book lying off to the side. A newly lit cigarette was flaming between his lips though a smile was curling along the edges, as if he was delighted to see John so invested in conversation.
"Well Mr. Watson, your time has come." He announced at last, getting to his feet with some effort and striding carelessly over to where John sat hunched over in his desk, trying to look as innocent as he could manage.
"My time?" he muttered carefully, not wanting to abandon his secrets all together.
"Time for conversation." Sherlock agreed. "You are not as inconspicuous as you intend to be."
"Well...well I suppose I wasn't trying to hide it." John managed at last. That was a bit of a lie, for he had all together been trying to blend in, though to admit that now would to be admitting to a rather poor skill in acting. Better to let Sherlock assume that he was perfectly content with his intentions being known. Sherlock smiled, walking around the edge of the desk and touching his fingers upon the notebooks that John had filled with scribbles, numbers that had faded into long lines of pencil and equations that led to nowhere but the edge of the page.
"May I call you John, now in the early hours?" Sherlock suggested, pushing the notebook a little ways down the table so as to clear room along the right side of the desk. It was there that he perched, settling himself with his feet swinging just inches off of the floor, absorbing the whole of John's concentration and a good portion of his bubble of personal space. John could summon up no complaint, though it was rather odd that Sherlock seemed so invested in John's own scheme of private conversation.
"Certainly." John managed, not able to summon up the word 'no' even if he had to. Sherlock smiled again, balancing his cigarette between his two fingers and tapping the ashes into the designated glass trays which accompanied almost every piece of furniture in the house. John smiled back, though he was growing a little bit more nervous as time went on. He realized, quite suddenly, that he had the whole of Sherlock's attention. Though what he was supposed to do with that was still a mystery, considering he had no solid plan after this. What would keep Sherlock entertained for long? What would keep him content with staying up in these morning hours, invested in a story that he may already know?
"John, what is it that I can do for you tonight?" he wondered at last, kicking his foot rather excitedly across the wooden paneling of the desk as if to call John back into the world of the living. It was true that John had become distracted, though that was due entirely to the fact that he was trying to make this moment mean something, instead of just letting his cowardice take over.
"I'm not sure yet." he admitted honestly, well before his mind could summon up any reasonable response. Sherlock chuckled, though he seemed to know that to be the honest truth. He took some amusement with that, though it would not be enough to satisfy the both of them for the whole night.
"Well then, we'll skip the small talk. We'll begin with something meaningful, yes? Something personal." Sherlock decided.
"How personal?" John wondered a bit frightfully, figuring that Sherlock was at liberty now to ask any question which popped into his mind. And, knowing his strange and all-encompassing impact, John knew that he would not be able to stay quiet, or to lie.
"Tell me, John, your greatest desire." Sherlock suggested at last, leaning a bit forward now to examine the way John's eyes flashed with sudden hesitation. Though even if he didn't intend on it, even if he wasn't all together willing to share the honest truth, John found his mouth opening once again, this time with a tongue that would not yield to potential cowardice.
"To make myself worthwhile, to make my life meaningful and not just...just something to be forgotten. A name in a billion, lost in the mess of machine." John admitted finally, his voice quivering and his fingers spinning about the pencil that was still clutched within his hand. Sherlock nodded, seeming to take that answer as an honest response.
"A reasonable aspiration." He agreed. "I have known many people who wanted to make names for themselves, though with little understanding on just what qualified as memorable."
"What do you mean by that?" John wondered quietly. Sherlock smiled, shrugging his shoulders as if to think a little more on the specifics.
"Well, think of all the names you can summon in your head. How many of those names belonged to truly great people? Those who were worthwhile, or those who were merely lucky?" Sherlock wondered.
"You can't just be lucky to go down in history." John protested, to which Sherlock merely chuckled, smiling as if appreciating an inside joke he shared only with himself.
"Certainly you can. Think of it, John...think of all those who were in the right place at the right time. Or rather the wrong place. You can go down in history by being successful, sure. But you may also be remembered for ending up in prison, or in a ditch by the side of the road. People seem to remember tragedies more vividly than they do success stories, especially if one's small success stems exclusively off some silly college degree and a dream of medical school." Sherlock pointed out.
"Are you suggesting I become a murderer?" John clarified with a blink.
"Or a victim of one. Whichever you think is more...impactful." Sherlock breathed a deep breath of smoke, looking quite satisfied with the advice he had shared. Though if it was advice or just the ravings of a madman, John wasn't sure. Whatever it was he took it as gospel, tracing each individual word inside of his head to admire later. It made little sense what was coming out of Sherlock's mouth, and perhaps it was the sleep deprivation that made it almost entirely incomprehensible. Though for now it seemed as though John was beginning to see this boy for what he ultimately was, a strange creature, riddled with his own determination and speaking words he knew to be untrue. John nodded, figuring there was no good way to continue on that branch of conversation even if he was interested in continuing it. For whatever reason Sherlock's strange advise had shaken him, and he began to stare down at his math homework, asking himself if it was really a good idea to probe this boy any farther. Perhaps Sherlock was like a fine piece of art, better if not entirely understood. Better from a distance, to be admired.
"Tell me John, about your friend Mr. Lestrade. I have been quite worried for him." Sherlock admitted at last, leaning his head back so that he could exhale the smoke of his cigarette straight into the air, like a fountain spitting water in the front lawn of a painted mansion. John hesitated, remembering back to Greg and just how reclusive that boy had become.
"I'm worried about him too, to be honest." John mumbled. "I think the stress of the semester must have hit him hard, that and his fight the other week."
"Oh yes, yes that could be it. But I do suppose there is a correlation between my arrival and his social distancing. I can't help to think that he finds my presence akin to a sour taste in his mouth, something that makes him pucker." Sherlock smacked his lips so as to annunciate the last word, chuckling to himself while continuing to let his head bob backwards. John wasn't sure if he was sleep deprived or just naturally giddy, but for now Sherlock reminded him like a child who had been given a highly caffeinated soda. His actions were erratic, his words unpredictable, and the implications of his speech quite incomprehensible. Well of course John wasn't going to complain, for it was now that he felt perfectly entitled to study each and every divot which hallowed itself out in the crook of his outstretched neck, spaces and divots that showed themselves when the white skin stretched so tightly overtop of his bones. It was a beautiful sight, something of a hypnotic effect, and for a moment John had the slightest temptation to lean in, figuring that there was space enough for his lips in about half of the shadows along Sherlock's neck. A quick blink shocked him back into reality, and finally Sherlock sat up straighter in an attempt to ease his breathing. John recollected himself, finding his fingers stretched tightly around the edge of his wooden chair, as if his hands were attempting to ground him in a moment of sanity and stability. What was he thinking, tempted to approach another boy with such gestures? What sort of devilry did Sherlock have at his disposal?
"I haven't asked." John said honestly. "In fact I haven't talked to him since the party."
"I should question him myself." Sherlock suggested.
"I'm not sure he wants to be bothered." John interrupted; worried that Greg might accuse him of some sort of collusion if he was approached outright by their new (and rather controversial) brother.
"So you claim not to know his perspective, well I think that is just fine. Very fair, to not yet know how to read the minds of others. But what do you think of me, John? Being the master of your own opinions?" Sherlock wondered, readjusting himself on the table so as to lean farther back into the desk, away from John enough that the boy allowed himself to breathe a little easier.
"What do I think of you?" John repeated to himself, in something of a hushed voice. He began to think, a million words flowing through his head in a tidal wave of accurate descriptions, ranging from very obscene remarks to more genuine compliments. But what did he think? Well, he thought a lot of things. His answer would have to depend on the goal of this conversation, whether it was to flatter, to be terribly honest, or to scare the stranger away.
"I think you are a blessing." John said at last, the most neutral and honest answer he could summon up at the time. "I'm not sure why, but there's something about you that is entirely an asset for the fraternity. I believe there will be a time when you can help us, though through what I'm not sure."
"I take that as a compliment, as I assume it was intended to be one." Sherlock said with a little smile, looking quite satisfied with John's honest opinion.
"And what do you think of me, then?" John wondered in response, looking towards Sherlock who sprouted one of those suggestive little smiles. He waved his finger through the air, following the pattern of his smoke as it faded up from the butt end of his cigarette.
"You, John? Well, you're my favorite sheep in the flock."